^'WiMj:^'*^f^M 


ua 


.i«*. 


MlM»WlUtti?S.4..M!>l*.'*iHililllll'1IIWW!WaWW?f8Si^^ 


J.H.EZCKTON, 


OtALcit  IN  — 


■"^LIES 


AND  STATIONARY,  4 

CARO,       -        -       MiCH.    /^ 


^    CAR< 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/flameshiGhensOOhichiala 


FLAMES 


FLAMES 

BY 
ROBERT  HIGHENS 

AUTHOR  OF 
THE  GARDEN  OF  ALLAH,  ETC. 

4. 

NEW    YORK 

GROSSET    &    DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS 

COPYRIGHT,      1 897,      BT 
HERBERT  S.    STONE  k  CO. 


TAt's  edition  published  July,  igob,  by 
Duffield  &'  Company 


BOOK  I— VALENTINE 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  SAINT  OF  VICTORIA  STREET 

Refinement  had  more  power  over  the  soul  of  Valen- 
tine Cresswell  than  religion.  It  governed  him  with  a 
curious  ease  of  supremacy,  and  held  him  back  without 
effort  from  most  of  the  young  man's  sins.  Each  age 
has  its  special  sins.  Each  age  passes  them,  like  troops 
in  review,  before  it  decides  what  regiment  it  will  join. 
Valentine  had  never  decided  to  join  any  regiment.  The 
trumpets  of  vice  rang  in  his  ears  in  vain,  mingled  with 
the  more  classical  music  of  his  life  as  the  retreat  from 
the  barracks  of  Seville  mingled  with  the  click  of  Car- 
men's castanets.  But  he  heeded  them  not.  If  he  lis- 
tened to  them  sometimes,  it  was  only  to  wonder  at  the 
harsh  and  blatant  nature  of  their  voices,  only  to  pity 
the  poor  creatures  who  hastened  to  the  prison,  which 
youth  thinks  freedom  and  old  age  protection,  at  their 
shrieking  summons.  He  preferred  to  be  master  of  his 
soul,  and  had  no  desire  to  set  it  drilling  at  the  command 
of  painted  women,  or  to  drown  it  in  wine,  or  to  suffo- 
cate it  in  the  smoke  at  which  the  voluptuary  tries  to 
warm  his  hands,  mistaking  it  for  fire.  Intellectuality  is 
to  some  men  what  religion  is  to  many  women,  a  trellis  of 
roses  that  bars  out  the  larger  world.  Valentine  loved 
to  watch  the  roses  bud  and  bloom  as  he  sat  in  his 
flower-walled  cell,  a  deliberate  and  rejoicing  prisoner. 
For  a  long  time  he  loved  to  watch  them.  And  he 
thought  that  it  must  always  be  so,  for  he  was  not  greatly 
given  to  moods,  and  therefore  scarcely  appreciated  the 
thrilling  meaning  of  the  word  change,  that  is  the  key- 


2  FLAMES 

word  of  so  many  a  life  cipher.  He  loved  the  pleasures 
of  the  intellect  so  much  that  he  made  the  mistake  of 
opposing  them,  as  enemies,  to  the  pleasures  of  the  body. 
The  reverse  mistake  is  made  by  the  generality  of  men ; 
and  those  who  deem  it  wise  to  mingle  the  sharply  con- 
trasted ingredients  that  form  a  good  recipe  for  happi- 
ness are  often  dubbed  incomprehensible,  or  worse.  But 
there  were  moments  at  a  period  of  Valentine's  life  when 
he  felt  discontented  at  his  strange  inability  to  long  for 
sin;  when  he  wondered,  rather  wearily,  why  he  was  rapt 
from  the  follies  that  other  men  enjoyed;  why  he  could 
refuse,  without  effort,  the  things  that  they  clamoured 
after  year  by  year  with  an  unceasing  gluttony  of  appetite. 
The  saint  quarrelled  mutely  with  his  holiness  of  intel- 
lectuality, and  argued,  almost  fiercely,  with  his  cold  and 
delicate  purity. 

'*Why  am  I  like  some  ivory  statue?"  he  thought 
sometimes,  "instead  of  like  a  human  being,  with  drum- 
ming pulses,  and  dancing  longings,  and  voices  calling 
forever  in  my  ears,  like  voices  of  sirens,  '  Come,  come, 
rest  in  our  arms,  sleep  on  our  bosoms,  for  we  are  they 
who  have  given  joy  to  all  men  from  the  beginning  of 
time.  We  are  they  who  have  drawn  good  men  from 
their  sad  goodness,  and  they  have  blessed  us.  We  are 
they  who  have  been  the  allegory  of  the  sage  and  the 
story  of  the  world.  In  our  soft  arms  the  world  has 
learned  the  glory  of  embracing.  On  our  melodious 
hearts  the  hearts  of  men  have  learned  the  sweet  religion 
of  singing.*  Why  cannot  I  be  as  other  men  are,  in- 
stead of  the  Saint —  the  saint  of  Victoria  Street  —  that 
I  am?" 

For,  absurdly  enough,  that  was  the  name  his  world 
gave  to  Valentine.  This  is  not  an  age  of  romance,  and 
he  did  not  dwell,  like  the  saints  of  old  centuries,  in  the 
clear  solitudes  of  the  great  desert,  but  in  what  the  ad- 
vertisement writer  calls  a  "commodious  flat"  in  Vic- 
toria Street.  No  little  jackals  thronged  about  him  in 
sinful  circle  by  night.  No  school  of  picturesque  disciples 
surrounded  him  by  day.  If  he  peeped  above  his  blinds 
he  could  see  the  radiant  procession  of  omnibuses  on 
their  halting  way  towards  Westminster.     The  melodies 


THE   SAINT   OF  VICTORIA   STREET      3 

of  wandering  organs  sang  in  his  ascetic  ears,  not  once, 
nor  twice,  but  many  times  a  week.  The  milk-boy  came, 
it  must  be  presumed,  to  pay  his  visit  m  the  morning;  and 
the  sparrows  made  the  air  alive,  poising  above  the 
chimneys,  instead  of  the  wild  eagles,  whose  home  is  near 
the  sun.  Valentine  was  a  modern  young  man  of  twen- 
ty-four, dealt  at  the  Army  and  Navy  Stores,  was  ex- 
tremely well  off,  and  knew  everybody.  He  belonged 
to  the  best  clubs  and  went  occasionally  to  the  best 
parties.  His  tailor  had  a  habitation  in  Sackville  Street, 
and  his  gloves  came  from  the  Burlington  Arcade.  He 
often  lunched  at  the  Berkeley  and  frequently  dined  at 
Willis's.  Also  he  had  laughed  at  the  antics  of  Arthur 
Roberts,  and  gazed  through  a  pair  of  gold-mounted 
opera-glasses  at  Empire  ballets  and  at  the  discreet  jug- 
gleries of  Paul  Cinquevalli.  The  romance  of  cloistered 
saintliness  was  not  his.  If  it  had  been  he  might  never 
have  rebelled.  For  how  often  it  is  romance  which 
makes  a  home  for  religion  in  the  heart  of  man,  romance 
which  feathers  the  nest  of  purity  in  which  the  hermit 
soul  delights  to  dwell!  Is  it  not  that  bizarre  silence  of 
the  Algerian  waste  which  leads  many  a  Trappist  to  his 
fate,  rather  than  the  strange  thought  of  God  calling  his 
soul  to  heavenly  dreams  and  ecstatic  renunciations?  Is 
it  not  the  wild  poetry  of  the  sleeping  snows  by  night 
that  gives  to  the  St.  Bernard  monk  his  holiest  meditations? 
When  the  organ  murmurs,  and  he  kneels  in  that  remote 
chapel  of  the  clouds  to  pray,  is  it  not  the  religion  of  his 
wonderful  earthly  situation  and  prospect  that  speaks  to 
him  loudly,  rather  than  the  religion  of  the  far-off  Power 
whose  hands  he  believes  to  hold  the  threads  of  his  des- 
tinies? Even  the  tonsure  is  a  psalm  to  some,  and  the 
robe  and  cowl  a  litany.  The  knotted  cord  is  a  mass  and 
the  sandal  a  prayer. 

But  Valentine  had  been  a  saint  by  temperament,  it 
seemed,  and  would  be  a  saint  by  temperament  to  the 
end.  He  had  not  been  scourged  to  a  prayerful  attitude 
by  sorrow  or  by  pain.  Tears  had  not  made  a  sea  to 
float  him  to  repentance  or  to  purity.  Apparently  he 
had  been  given  what  men  call  goodness  as  others  are 
given  moustaches  or  a  cheerful  temper.     When  his  con- 


4  FLAMES 

temporaries  wondered  at  him,  he  often  found  himself 
wondering  still  more  at  them.  Why  did  they  love 
coarse  sins?  he  thought.  Why  did  they  fling  themselves 
down,  like  dogs,  to  roll  in  offal?  He  could  not  under- 
stand, and  for  a  long  time  he  did  not  wish  to  under- 
stand. But  one  night  the  wish  came  to  him,  and  he  ex- 
pressed it  to  his  bosom  friend,  Julian  Addison. 


CHAPTER  II 

A  QUESTION  OF  EXCHANGE 

Most  of  us  need  an  opposite  to  sit  by  the  hearth 
with  us  sometimes,  and  to  stir  us  to  wonder  or  to  war. 
Julian  was  Valentine's  singularly  complete  and  perfect 
opposite,  in  nature  if  not  in  deeds.  But,  after  all,  it 
is  the  thoughts  that  are  of  account  rather  than  the  acts, 
to  a  mind  like  Valentine's.  He  knew  that  Julian's  nature 
was  totally  unlike  his  own,  so  singularly  unlike  that 
Julian  struck  just  the  right  note  to  give  the  strength  of 
a  discord  to  the  chord — that  often  seemed  a  com- 
mon chord  — of  his  own  harmony.  Long  ago, 
for  this  reason,  or  for  no  special  reason,  he  had 
grown  to  love  Julian.  Theirs  was  a  fine,  clean  specimen 
of  friendship.  How  fine,  Valentine  never  rightly  knew 
until  this  evening. 

They  were  sitting  together  in  Valentine's  flat  in  that 
hour  when  he  became  serious  and  expansive.  He  had 
rather  a  habit  of  becoming  serious  toward  midnight, 
especially  if-  he  was  with  only  one  person ;  and  no  desire 
to  please  interfered  with  his  natural  play  of  mind  and  of 
feeling  when  he  was  with  Julian.  To  affect  any  feeling 
with  Julian  would  have  seemed  like  being  on  conven- 
tional terms  with  an  element,  or  endeavouring  to  deceive 
one's  valet  about  one's  personal  habits.  Long  ago 
Julian  and  he  had,  in  mind,  taken  up  their  residence 
together,  fallen  into  the  pleasant  custom  of  breakfast- 
ing, lunching,  and  dining  on  all  topics  in  common. 
Valentine  knew  of  no  barriers  between  them.  And  so, 
now,  as  they  sat  smoking,  he  expressed  his  mood  with- 
out fear  or  hesitation. 

The  room  in  which  they  were  was  small.  It  was 
named  the  tentroom,  being  hung  with  dull  green 
draperies,  which  hid  the  ceiling  and  fell  loosely  to  the 


6  FLAMES 

floor  on  every  side.  A  heavy  curtain  shrouded  the  one 
door.  On  the  hearth  flickered  a  fire,  before  which  lay 
Valentine's  fox-terrier,  Rip.  Julian  was  half  lying  down  on 
a  divan  in  an  unbuttoned  attitude.  Valentine  leaned 
forward  in  an  arm-chair.     They  were  smoking  cigarettes. 

"Julian,"  Valentine  said,  meditatively,  "I  some- 
times wonder  why  you  and  I  are  such  great  friends." 

"How  abominable  of  you!  To  seek  a  reason  for 
friendship  is  as  inhuman  as  to  probe  for  the  causes  of 
love.  Do  n't,  for  goodness'  sake,  let  your  intellect 
triumph  over  your  humanity,  Valentine.  Of  all  modern 
vices,  that  seems  to  me  the  most  loathsome.  But  you 
could  never  fall  into  anything  loathsome.  You  are 
sheeted  against  that  danger  with  plate  armour." 

"  Nonsense!  " 

"  But  you  are.  It  sometimes  seems  to  me  that  you 
and  I  are  like  Elijah  and  Elisha,  in  a  way.  But  I  am 
covetous  of  your  mantle." 

"Then  you  want  me  to  be  caught  from  you  into 
heaven?  " 

"  No.  I  should  like  you  to  give  me  your  mantle,  your 
powers,  your  nature,  that  is,  and  to  stay  here  as  well." 

"  And  send  the  chariot  of  fire  to  the  coach-house,  and 
the  horses  of  fire  to  the  nearest  stables?  " 

"Exactly!" 

*'  Well,  but  give  me  a  reason  for  this  rascally  craving. " 

"  A  reason!  Oh,  I  hate  my  nature  and  I  love  yours. 
What  a  curse  it  is  to  go  through  life  eternally  haunted 
by  one's  self;  worse  than  being  married  to  an  ugly,  bor- 
ing wife." 

"  Now  you  are  being  morbid." 

"  Well,  I  'm  telling  you  just  how  I  feel." 

"  That  is  being  morbid,  according  to  some  people 
who  claim  to  direct  Society," 

"  The  world's  County  Council,  who  would  like  to 
abolish  all  the  public  bars." 

"  And  force  us  to  do  our  drinking  in  the  privacy  of 
our  bedrooms." 

"  You  would  never  do  any  drinking,  Valentine.  How 
could  you,  the  Saint  of  Victoria  Street?" 

"  I  begin  to  hate  that  nickname." 


A   QUESTION   OF   EXCHANGE  7 

And  he  frowned  slowly.  Tall,  fair,  curiously  inno- 
cent-looking, his  face  was  the  face  of  a  blonde  ascetic. 
His  blue  eyes  were  certainly  not  cold,  but  nobody  could 
imagine  that  they  would  ever  gleam  with  passion  or  with 
desire  as  they  looked  upon  sin.  His  mouth  seemed 
made  for  prayer,  not  for  kisses;  and  so  women  often 
longed  to  kiss  it.  Over  him,  indeed,  intellectuality  hung 
like  a  light  veil,  setting  him  apart  from  the  uproar  which 
the  world  raises  while  it  breaks  the  ten  commandments. 
Julian,  on  the  other  hand,  was  brown,  with  bright,  eager 
eyes,  and  the  expression  of  one  who  was  above  all 
things  intensely  human.  Valentine  had  ever  been,  and 
still  remained,  to  him  a  perpetual  wonder,  a  sort  of 
beautiful  mystery.  He  actually  reverenced  this  youth 
who  stood  apart  from  all  the  muddy  ways  of  sin,  too 
refined,  as  it  seemed,  rather  than  too  religious,  to  be 
attracted  by  any  wile  of  the  devil's,  too  completely 
artistic  to  feel  any  impulse  towards  the  subtle  violence 
which  lurks  in  all  the  vagaries  of  the  body.  Valentine 
was  to  Julian  a  god,  but  in  their  mutual  relations  this 
ir'^  never  became  apparent.  On  the  contrary,  Valen- 
t  .e  was  apt  to  look  up  to  Julian  with  admiration,  and 
the  curious  respect  often  felt  by  those  who  are  good  by 
temperament  for  those  who  are  completely  human.  And 
Julian  loved  Valentine  for  looking  up  to  him,  finding  in 
this  absurd  modesty  of  his  friend  a  crowning  beauty  of 
character.  He  had  never  told  Valentine  the  fact  that 
Valentine  kept  him  pure,  held  his  bounding  nature  in 
leash,  was  the  wall  of  fire  that  hedged  him  from  sin,  the 
armour  that  protected  him  against  the  assaults  of  self. 
He  had  never  told  Valentine  this  secret,  whic'j  he  cher- 
ished with  the  exceeding  and  watchful  care  men  so  often 
display  in  hiding  that  which  does  them  credit.  For  who 
is  not  a  pocket  Byron  nowadays?  But  to-night  was  fated 
by  the  Immortals  to  be  a  night  of  self-revelation.  And 
Valentine  led  the  way  by  taking  a  step  that  surprised 
Julian  not  a  little.     For  as  Valentine  frowned  he  said: 

"  Yes,  I  begin  to  hate  my  nickname,  and  I  begin  to 
hate  myself." 

Julian  could  not  help  smiling  at  the  absurdity  of  this 
bemoaning. 


8  FLAMES 

'*  What  is  it  in  yourself  that  you  hate  so  much?  "  he 
asked,  with  a  decided  curiosity. 

Valentine  sat  considering. 

"Well,"  he  replied  at  length,  **  I  think  it  is  my 
inhumanity,  which  robs  me  of  many  things.  I  don't 
desire  the  pleasures  that  most  men  desire,  as  you  know. 
But  lately  I  have  often  wished  to  desire  them." 

"  Rather  an  elaborate  state  of  mind." 

"  Yet  a  state  easy  to  understand,  surely.  Julian, 
emotions  pass  me  by.  Why  is  that?  Deep  love,  deep 
hate,  despair,  desire,  won't  stop  to  speak  to  me.  Men 
tell  me  I  am  a  marvel  because  I  never  do  as  they  do. 
But  I  am  not  driven  as  they  are  evidently  driven.  The 
fact  of  the  matter  is  that  desire  is  not  in  me.  My  nature 
shrinks  from  sin;  but  it  is  not  virtue  that  shrinks:  it  is 
rather  reserve.  I  have  no  more  temptation  to  be  sensual, 
for  instance,  than  I  have  to  be  vulgar." 

"  Hang  it,  Val,  you  don't  want  to  have  the  tempta- 
tion,  do  you?  " 

Valentine  looked  at  Julian  curiously. 

**  You  have  the  temptation,  Julian?  "  he  said. 

"  You  know  I  have — horribly." 

*'  But  you  fight  it  and  conquer  it?  " 

*'  I  fight  it,  and  now  I  am  beginning  to  conquer  it,  to 
get  it  under." 

"Now?     Since  when?" 

Julian  replied  by  asking  another  question. 

"  Look  here,  how  long  have  we  known  each  other?  " 

"Let  me  see.  I'm  twenty-four,  you  twenty-three. 
Just  five  years." 

"Ah!  For  just  five  years  I've  fought,  Val,  been 
able  to  fight." 

"And  before  then?" 

"I  did  n't  fight;  I  revelled  in  the  enemy's  camp." 

"You  have  never  told  me  this  before.  Did  you  sud- 
denly get  conversion,  as  Salvationists  say?  " 

"  Something  like  it.  But  my  conversion  had  nothing 
to  do  with  trumpets  and  tambourines." 

"What  then?     This  is  interesting." 

A  certain  confusion  had  come  into  Julian's  expression, 
even  a  certain  echoing  awkwardness  into  his  attitude. 


A   QUESTION   OF   EXCHANGE  9 

He  looked  away  into  the  fire  and  lighted  another  cigar- 
ette before  he  answered.     Then  he  said  rather  unevenly: 

"  I  dare  say  you  '11  be  surprised  when  I  tell  you.  But 
I  never  meant  to  tell  you  at  all." 

"Don't,  if  you  would  rather  not." 

**Yes,  I  think  I  will.  I  must  stop  you  from  disliking 
yourself  at  any  cost,  dear  old  boy.  Well,  you  con- 
verted me,  so  far  as  I  am  converted;  and  that  's  not  very 
far,  I  'm  afraid." 

"  I?  "  said  Valentine,  with  genuine  surprise.  "Why, 
I  never  tried  to." 

*'  Exactly.    If  you  had,  no  doubt  you  'd  have  failed." 

**  But  explain." 

**  I  've  never  told  you  all  you  do  for  me,  Val.  You 
are  my  armour  against  all  these  damned  things.  When 
I  'm  with  you,  I  hate  the  notion  of  being  a  sinner.  I 
never  hated  it  before  I  met  you.  In  fact,  I  loved  it. 
I  wanted  sin  more  than  I  wanted  anything  in  heaven  or 
earth.  And  then — just  at  the  critical  moment  when  I 
was  passing  from  boyhood  into  manhood,  I  met  you." 

He  stopped.  His  brown  cheeks  were  glowing,  and  he 
avoided  Valentine's  gaze. 

"Go  on,  Julian,"  Valentine  said.  "I  want  to  hear 
this." 

"All  right,  I  '11  finish  now,  but  I  do  n't  know  why  I 
ever  began.  Perhaps  you  '11  think  me  a  fool,  or  a  senti- 
mentalist." 

"  Nonsense!  " 

"Well,  I  don't  know  how  it  is,  but  when  I  saw  you  I 
first  understood  that  there  is  a  good  deal  in  what  the  par- 
sons say,  that  sin  is  beastly  in  itself,  do  n't  you  know,  even 
apart  from  one's  religious  convictions,  or  the  injury  one 
may  do  to  others.  When  I  saw  you,  I  understood  that 
sin  degrades  one's  self,  Valentine.  For  you  had  never 
sinned  as  I  had,  and  you  were  so  different  from  me. 
You  are  the  only  sinless  man  I  know,  and  you  have 
made  me  know  what  beasts  we  men  are.  Why  can't  we 
be  what  we  might  be?  " 

Valentine  did  not  reply.  He  seemed  lost  in  thought, 
and  Julian  continued,  throwing  off  his  original  shame- 
facedness: 


lo  FLAMES 

**  Ever  since  then  you  *ve  kept  me  straight.  If  I  feel 
inclined  to  throw  myself  down  in  the  gutter,  one  look  at 
you  makes  me  loathe  the  notion.  Preaching  of  ten  drives 
one  wrong  out  of  sheer  '  cussedness,'  I  suppose.  But 
you  don't  preach  and  don't  care.  You  just  live  beauti- 
fully, because  you  're  made  differently  from  all  of  us. 
So  you  do  for  me  what  no  preachers  could  ever  do.  There 
— now  you  know," 

He  lay  back,  puffing  violently  at  his  cigarette. 

*'Itis  strange,"  Valentine  said,  seeing  he  had  fin- 
ished. "You  know,  to  live  as  I  do  is  no  effort  to  me, 
and  so  it  is  absurd  to  praise  me. ' ' 

"I  won't  praise  you,  but  it's  outrageous  of  you  to 
want  to  feel  as  I  and  other  men  feel." 

"  Is  it?  I  don't  think  so.  I  think  it  is  very  natural. 
My  life  is  a  dead  calm,  and  a  dead  calm  is  monoto- 
nous. ' ' 

"It 's  better  than  an  everlasting  storm." 

"I  wonder!  "  Valentine  said.  "  How  curious  that  I 
should  protect  you.  I  am  glad  it  is  so.  And  yet,  Ju- 
/ian,  in  spite  of  what  you  say,  I  would  give  a  great  deal 
to  change  souls  with  you,  if  only  for  a  day  or  two.  You 
will  laugh  at  me,  but  I  do  long  to  feel  a  real,  keen  temp- 
tation. Those  agonizing  struggles  of  holy  men  that  one 
reads  of,  what  can  they  be  like?  I  can  hardly  imagine. 
There  have  been  ascetics  who  have  wept,  and  dashed 
themselves  down  on  the  ground,  and  injured,  wounded 
their  bodies  to  distract  their  thoughts  from  vice.  To 
me  they  seem  as  madmen.  You  know  the  story  of  the 
monk  who  rescued  a  great  courtesan  from  her  life  of 
shame.  He  placed  her  in  a  convent  and  went  into  the 
desert.  But  her  image  haunted  him,  maddened  him. 
He  slunk  back  to  the  convent,  and  found  her  dying  in 
the  arms  of  God.  And  he  tried  to  drag  her  away,  that 
she  might  sin  only  once  again  with  him,  with  him,  her 
saviour.  But  she  died,  giving  herself  to  God,  and  he  went 
out  cursing  and  blaspheming.  This  is  only  a  dramatic 
fable  to  me.     And  yet  I  suppose  it  is  a  possibility. " 

"  Of  course.  Val,  I  could  imagine  myself  doing  as 
that  monk  did,  but  for  you.  Only  that  I  could  never 
have  been  a  monk  at  all." 


A   QUESTION   OF   EXCHANGE  ii 

"I  am  glad  if  I  help  you  to  any  happiness,  Julian. 
But — but — oh!  to  feel  temptation!  " 

*'0h,  not  to  feel  it!  By  Jove,  I  long  to  have  done 
with  the  infernal  thing  that 's  always  ready  to  bother  me. 
Fighting  it  is  no  fun,  Val,  I  can  tell  you.  If  you  would 
like  to  have  my  soul  for  a  day  or  two,  I  should  love  to 
have  yours  in  exchange." 

Valentine  smoked  in  silence  for  two  or  three  minutes. 
His  pure,  pale,  beautiful  face  was  rather  wistful  as  he 
gazed  at  the  fire. 

"Why  can't  these  affairs  be  managed?"  he  sighed 
out  at  length. 

"Why  can't  we  do  just  the  one  thing  more? 
We  can  kill  a  man's  body.  We  can  kill  a  woman's 
purity.  And  here  you  and  I  sit,  the  closest  friends,  and 
neither  of  us  can  have  the  same  experiences,  as  the 
other,  even  for  a  moment.      Why  isn't  it  possible?" 

"  Perhaps  it  is." 

"  Why  ?     How  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"Well,  of  course  I  'm  rather  a  sceptic,  and  entirely 
an  ignoramus.  But  I  met  a  man  the  other  day  who 
would  have  laughed  at  us  for  doubting.  He  was  an 
awfully  strange  fellow.  His  name  is  Marr.  I  met  him 
at  Lady  Crichton's. " 

"Who  is  he?" 

"Have  n't  an  idea.  I  never  saw  or  heard  of  him 
before.  We  talked  a  good  deal  at  dessert.  He  came 
over  from  the  other  side  of  the  table  to  sit  by  me,  and 
somehow,  in  five  minutes,  we  'd  got  into  spiritualism  and 
all  that  sort  of  thing.  He  is  evidently  a  believer  in  it, 
calls  himself  an  occultist." 

"But  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  he  said  souls  could  be 
exchanged  at  will  ?     Come,  Julian  ?  " 

"  I  won't  say  that.  But  he  set  no  limit  at  all  to  what 
can  be  done.  He  declares  that  if  people  seriously  set 
themselves  to  develop  the  latent  powers  that  lie  hidden 
within  them,  they  can  do  almost  anything.  Only  they 
must  be  en  rapport.  Each  must  respond  closely,  definitely, 
to  the  other.  Now,  you  and  I  are  as  much  in  sympathy 
with  one  another  as  any  two  men  in  London,  I  suppose." 

"Surely!" 


12  FLAMES 

"Then  half  the  battle  's  won — according  to  Marr. " 

"You  are  joking." 

"  He  was  n't.  He  would  declare  that,  with  time  and 
perseverance,  we  could  accomplish  an  exchange  of  souls." 

Valentine  laughed. 

"Well,  but  how?" 

Julian  laughed  too. 

"Oh,  it  seems  absurd  —  but  he  'd  tell  us  to  sit  to- 
gether." 

"Well,  we  are  sitting  together  now." 

"  No;  at  a  table,  I  mean." 

"Table-turning!"  Valentine  cried,  with  a  sort  of 
contempt.  "That  is  for  children,  and  for  all  of  us  at 
Christmas,  when  we  want  to  make  fools  of  ourselves." 

"Just  what  I  am  inclined  to  think.  But  Marr — and 
he  's  really  a  very  smart,  clever  chap,  Val — denies  it. 
He  swears  it  is  possible  for  two  people  who  sit  together 
often  to  get  up  a  marvellous  sympathy,  which  lasts  on 
even  when  they  are  no  longer  sitting.  He  says  you  can 
even  see  your  companion's  thoughts  take  form  in  the 
darkness  before  your  eyes,  and  pass  in  procession  like 
living  things." 

"  He  must  be  mad. " 

"Perhaps.  I  don't  know.  If  he  is,  he  can  put  his 
madness  to  you  very  lucidly,  very  ingeniously." 

Valentine  stroked  the  white  back  of  Rip  meditatively 
with  his  foot. 

"  You  have  never  sat,  have  you?  "  he  asked. 

"Never." 

"Nor  I.  I  have  always  thought  it  an  idiotic  and 
very  dull  way  of  wasting  one's  time.  Now,  what  on 
earth  can  a  table  have  to  do  with  one's  soul?  " 

"  I  do  n't  know.     What  is  one's  soul?  " 

"One's  essence,  I  suppose;  the  inner  light  that 
spreads  its  rays  outward  in  actions,  and  that  is  extin- 
guished, or  expelled,  at  the  hour  of  death." 

"Expelled,  I  think." 

"I  think  so  too.  That  which  is  so  full  of  strange 
power  cannot  surely  die  so  soon.  Even  my  soul,  so 
frigid,  so  passionless,  has,  you  say,  held  you  back  from 
sins  like  a  leash  of  steel.     And  I  did  not  even  try  to 


A   QUESTION   OF   EXCHANGE  13 

forge  the  steel.  If  we  could  exchange  souls,  would  yours 
hold  me  back  in  the  same  way? " 

"No  doubt." 

"I  wonder,"  Valentine  said  thoughtfully.  After  a 
moment  he  added,  "shall  we  make  this  absurd  experi- 
ment of  sitting-,  just  for  a  phantasy?" 

"  Why  not  ?     It  would  be  rather  fun. " 

"  It  might  be.  We  will  just  do  it  once  to  see  whether 
you  can  get  some  of  my  feelings,  and  I  some  of  yours." 

"  That  's  it.  But  you  could  never  get  mine.  I  know 
you  too  well,  Val.  You  're  my  rock  of  defence.  You  've 
kept  me  straight  because  you  're  so  straight  yourself  ; 
and,  with  that  face,  you  '11  never  alter.  If  anything 
should  happen,  it  will  be  that  you  '11  drag  me  up  to 
where  you  are.  I  shan't  drag  you  down  to  my  level, 
you  old  saint!  " 

And  he  laid  his  hand  affectionately  on  his  friend's 
shoulder. 

Valentine  smiled. 

"Your  level  is  not  low,"  he  said. 

"No,  perhaps;  but,  by  Jove,  it  could  be,  though. 
If  you  had  n't  been  chucked  into  the  world,  I  often  think 
the  devil  must  have  had  me  altogether.  You  keep  him 
off.    How  he  must  hate  you,  Val.    Hulloh!   What 's  that?" 

"What?" 

"Who  's  that  laughing  outside?  Has  Wade  got  a 
friend  in  to-night?  " 

"  Not  that  I  know  of.     I  did  n't  hear  anything." 

Valentine  touched  the  electric  bell,  and  his  man 
appeared. 

"  Any  one  in  with  you  to-night,  Wade? "  he  asked. 

The  man  looked  surprised. 

"  No,  sir;  certainly  not,  sir." 

"  Oh!  Do  n't  sit  up;  we  may  be  late  to-night.  And 
we  do  n't  want  anything  more,  except — yes,  bring  an- 
other couple  of  sodas." 

"Yes,  sir." 

He  brought  them  and  vanished.  A  moment  later 
they  heard  the  front  door  of  the  flat  close.  The  butler 
was  married  and  slept  out  of  the  house.  Valentine  had 
no  servant  sleeping  in  the  flat.  He  preferred  to  be  alone 
at  night. 


CHAPTER   III 

EPISODE  OF  THE  FIRST  SITTING 

*' Now,  then,"  said  Valentine,  "let  us  be  absurd 
and  try  this  sitting.     Shall  we  clear  this  little  table?  " 

"Yes.  It 's  just  the  right  size.  It  might  do  for  three 
people,  but  certainly  not  for  more." 

"There!     Now,  then." 

And,  as  the  clock  struck  twelve,  Valentine  turned  off 
the  electric  light,  and  they  sat  down  with  their  hands 
upon  the  table.  The  room  was  only  very  dimly  illumi- 
nated by  the  fire  on  the  hearth,  where  Rip  slept  on,  indif- 
ferent to  their  proceedings. 

"I  suppose  nothing  could  go  wrong,"  Julian  said, 
after  a  moment  of  silence. 

"Wrong!  " 

"  Yes.  I  don't  know  exactly  what  Marr  meant,  but 
he  said  that  if  unsuitable  people  sit  together  any  amount 
of  harm  can  result  from  it." 

"What  sort  of  harm?  " 

"  I  do  n't  know." 

"  H'm!  I  expect  that  is  all  nonsense,  like  the  rest 
of  his  remarks.  Anyhow,  Julian,  no  two  people  could 
ever  hit  it  off  better  than  you  and  I  do.     Wait  a  second. " 

He  jumped  up  and  drew  the  curtain  over  the  door. 
Wade  had  pulled  it  back  when  he  came  in. 

"  I  must  have  that  curtain  altered,"  Valentine  said. 
"  It  is  so  badly  hung  that  whenever  the  door  is  opened, 
it  falls  half  way  back,  and  looks  hideous.  That  is 
better." 

He  sat  down  again. 

"  We  won't  talk,"  he  said. 

"  No.    We  '11  give  the — whatever  it  is  every  chance." 

They  were  silent. 

14 


EPISODE   OF   THE    FIRST   SITTING      15 

Presently  —  it  might  have  been  a  quarter  of  an  hour  — 
Julian  said  suddenly: 

'*  Do  you  feel  anything?  " 

"  'M  —  no,"  Valentine  answered,  rather  doubtfully. 

**Sure?" 

"I  think  so." 

"You  can't  merely  think  you  are  sure,  old  chap." 

"Well,  then  —  yes,  I  '11  say  I  am  sure." 

"Right,"  rejoined  Julian. 

Again  there  was  a  silence,  broken  this  time  by  Valen- 
tine. 

"  Why  did  you  ask  me?  "  he  said. 

"Oh!  no  special  reason.     I  just  wanted  to  know. " 

"Then  you  didn't?" 

"Did  n't  what?  " 

"  Feel  anything? " 

"No;  nothing  particular. " 

"  Well,  what  do  you  mean  by  that?  " 

"What  I  say.      I  can't  be  sure  it  was  anything." 

"  That 's  vague." 

"So  was  my  —  I  can't  even  call  it  exactly  sensation. 
It  was  so  very  slight.  In  fact,  I  'm  as  good  as  sure  I 
felt  nothing  at  all.    It  was  a  mere  fancy.    Nothing  more. ' ' 

And  then  again  they  were  silent.  The  fire  gradually 
died  down  until  the  room  grew  quite  dark.  Presently 
Valentine  said: 

"Hulloh!  here  is  Rip  up  against  my  foot.  He  is 
cold  without  the  fire,  poor  little  beggar." 

"  Shall  we  stop?  "  asked  Julian. 

"Yes;  I  vote  we  do  —  for  to-night." 

Valentine  struck  a  match,  felt  for  the  knob  of  the 
electric  light,  and  turned  it  on.  Julian  and  he  looked  at 
each  other,  blinking. 

"  Think  there  's  anything  in  it?  "  asked  Julian. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Valentine.  "I  suppose  not. 
Rip!  Rip!  He  is  cold.  Did  you  ever  see  a  dog  shiver 
like  that?" 

He  picked  the  little  creature  up  in  his  arms.  It 
nestled  against  his  shoulder  with  a  deep  sigh. 

"Well,  we  have  made  a  beginning,"  he  said,  turning 
to  pour  out  a  drink.     "  It  is  rather  interesting." 


i6  FLAMES 

Julian  was  lighting  a  cigarette. 

"Yes;  it  is  —  very."  he  answered, 

Valentine  gave  him  a  brandy  "and  soda;  then,  as  if 
struck  by  a  sudden  thought,  asked: 

"You  really  did  n't  feel  anything?  " 

"No." 

"  Nor  I.  But  then,  Julian,  why  do  we  find  it  interest- 
ing? " 

Julian  looked  puzzled. 

"  Hang  it!  I  do  n't  know,"  he  answered,  after  an  in- 
stant of  reflection.      "Why  do  we?  I  wonder." 

"That  is  what  I  am  wondering." 

He  flicked  the  ash  from  his  cigarette. 

"But  I  don't  come  to  any  conclusion,"  he  presently 
added,  meditatively.  "We  sit  in  the  dark  for  an  hour  and 
a  quarter,  with  our  hands  solemnly  spread  out  upon  a 
table;  we  do  n't  talk;  the  table  does  n't  move;  we  hear 
no  sound;  we  see  nothing;  we  feel  nothing  that  we  have 
not  felt  before.  And  yet  we  find  the  function  interest- 
ing. This  problem  of  sensation  is  simply  insoluble.  I 
cannot  work  it  out." 

"It  is  awfully  puzzling, "  said  Julian.  "I  suppose 
our  nerves  must  have  been  subtly  excited  because  the 
thing  was  an  absolute  novelty." 

"  Possibly.  But,  if  so,  we  are  a  couple  of  children, 
mere  schoolboys." 

"That 's  rather  refreshing,  however  undignified.  If 
we  sit  long  enough,  we  may  even  recover  our  long-lost 
babyhood." 

And  so  they  laughed  the  matter  easily  away.  Soon 
afterwards,  however,  Julian  got  up  to  go  home  to  his 
chambers.  Valentine  went  towards  the  door,  intending 
to  open  it  and  get  his  friend's  coat.  Suddenly  he 
stopped. 

"  Strange!  "  he  exclaimed, 

"What 's  the  row?  " 

"Look  at  the  door,  Julian." 

"Well?" 

"  Do  n't  you  see?" 

"What?" 

" The  curtain  is  half  drawn  back  again." 


EPISODE   OF   THE    FIRST   SITTING      i; 

Julian  gave  vent  to  a  long,  low  whistle. 

**So  it  is!  " 

*'  It  always  does  that  when  the  door  is  opened." 

*'  And  only  then,  of  course?  " 

"Of  course." 

"But  the  door  hasn't  been  opened." 

"I  know." 

They  regarded  each  other  almost  uneasily.  Then 
Valentine  added,  with  a  short  laugh: 

'*  I  can't  have  drawn  it  thoroughly  over  the  door  when 
Wade  went  away." 

"  I  suppose  not.     Well,  good-night,  Val. " 

"  Good-night.     Shall  we  sit  again  tomorrow?  " 

"Yes;  I  vote  we  do." 

Valentine  let  his  friend  out.  As  he  shut  the  front 
door,  he  said  to  himself: 

"I  am  positive  I  did  draw  the  curtain  thoroughly." 

He  went  back  into  the  tentroom  and  glanced  again  at 
the  curtain. 

"Yes;  I  am  positive." 

After  an  instant  of  puzzled  wonder,  he  seemed  to 
put  the  matter  deliberately  from  him. 

"Come  along,  Rip,"  he  said.  "Why,  you  are  cold 
and  miserable  to-night!     Must  I  carry  you  then?" 

He  picked  the  dog  up,  turned  out  the  light,  and 
walked  slowly  into  his  bedroom. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  SECOND  SITTING 

On  the  following  night  Valentine  sat  waiting  for 
Julian's  arrival  in  his  drawing-room,  which  looked  out 
upon  Victoria  Street,  whereas  the  only  window  of  the 
tentroom  opened  upon  some  waste  ground  where  once 
a  panorama  of  Jerusalem,  or  some  notorious  city,  stood, 
and  where  building  operations  were  now  being  generally 
carried  on.  Valentine  very  seldom  used  his  drawing- 
room.  Sometimes  pretty  women  came  to  tea  with  him, 
and  he  did  them  honour  there.  Sometimes  musicians 
came.  Then  there  was  always  a  silent  group  gathered 
round  the  Steinway  grand  piano.  For  Valentine  was 
inordinately  fond  of  music,  and  played  so  admirably 
that  even  professionals  never  hurled  at  him  a  jeering 
"amateur!"  But  when  Valentine  was  alone,  or  when 
he  expected  one  or  two  men  to  smoke,  he  invariably  sat 
in  the  tentroom,  where  the  long  lounges  and  the 
shaded  electric  light  were  suggestive  of  desultory  con- 
versation, and  seemed  tacitly  to  forbid  all  things  that 
savour  of  a  hind-leg  attitude.  To-night,  however,  some 
whim,  no  doubt,  had  prompted  him  to  forsake  his  usual 
haunt.  Perhaps  he  had  been  seized  with  a  dislike  for 
complete  silence,  such  as  comes  upon  men  in  recurring 
hours  of  depression,  when  the  mind  is  submerged  by  a 
thin  tide  of  unreasoning  melancholy,  and  sound  of  one 
kind  or  another  is  as  ardently  sought  as  at  other  times 
it  is  avoided.  In  this  room  Valentine  could  hear  the 
vague  traffic  of  the  dim  street  outside,  the  dull  tumult 
of  an  omnibus,  the  furtive,  flashing  clamour  of  a  hansom, 
the  cry  of  an  occasional  newsboy,  explanatory  of  the 
crimes  and  tragedies  of  the  passing  hour.  Or  perhaps 
the  eyes  of  Valentine  were,  for  the  moment,  weary  of 
the  monotonous  green   walls  of    his    sanctum,    leaning 

i8 


THE   SECOND   SITTING  19 

tent-wise  towards  the  peaked  apex  of  the  ceiling,  and 
longed  to  rest  on  the  many  beautiful  pictures  that  hung 
in  one  line  around  his  drawing-room.  It  seemed  so,  for 
now,  as  he  sat  in  a  chair  before  the  fire,  holding  Rip 
upon  his  knee,  his  blue  eyes  were  fixed  meditatively 
upon  a  picture  called  "The  Merciful  Knight,"  which 
faced  him  over  the  mantelpiece.  This  was  the  only 
picture  containing  a  figure  of  the  Christ  which  Valentine 
possessed.  He  had  no  holy  children,  no  Madonnas.  But 
he  loved  this  Christ,  this  exquisitely  imagined  dead, 
drooping  figure,  which,  roused  into  life  by  an  act  of 
noble  renunciation,  bent  down  and  kissed  the  armed 
hero  who  had  been  great  enough  to  forgive  his  enemy. 
He  loved  those  weary,  tender  lips,  those  faded  limbs, 
the  sacred  tenuity  of  the  ascetic  figure,  the  wonderful 
posture  of  benign  familiarity  that  was  more  majestic 
than  any  reserve.  Yes,  Valentine  loved  this  Christ, 
and  Julian  knew  it  well.  Often,  late  at  night,  Julian 
had  leaned  back  lazily  listening  while  Valentine  played, 
improvising  in  a  light  so  dim  as  to  be  near  to  darkness. 
And  Julian  had  noticed  that  the  player's  eyes  perpetu- 
ally sought  this  picture,  and  rested  on  it,  while  his  soul, 
through  the  touch  of  the  fingers,  called  to  the  soul  of 
music  that  slept  in  the  piano,  stirred  it  from  sleep, 
carried  it  through  strange  and  flashing  scenes,  taught  it 
to  strive  and  to  agonize,  then  hushed  it  again  to  sleep 
and  peace.  And  as  Julian  looked  from  the  picture  to  the 
player,  who  seemed  drawing  inspiration  from  it,  he 
often  mutely  compared  the  imagined  beauty  of  the  soul 
of  the  Christ  with  the  known  beauty  of  the  soul  of  his 
friend.  And  the  two  lovelinesses  seemed  to  meet,  and 
to  mingle  as  easily  as  two  streams  one  with  the  other. 
Yet  the  beauty  of  the  Christ  soul  sprang  from  a  strange 
parentage,  was  a  sublime  inheritance,  had  been  tried  in 
the  fiercest  fires  of  pity  and  of  pain.  The  beauty  of 
Valentine's  soul  seemed  curiously  innate,  and  mingled 
with  a  dazzling  snow  of  almost  inhuman  purity.  His 
was  not  a  great  soul  that  had  striven  successfully,  and 
must  always  strive.  His  was  a  soul  that  easily 
triumphed,  that  was  almost  coldly  perfect  without 
effort,    that  had   surely   never   longed   even  for  a  mo- 


20  FLAMES 

ment  to  fall,  had  never  desired  and  refused  the 
shadowy  pleasures  of  passion.  The  wonderful  purity 
of  his  friend's  face  continually  struck  Julian  anew. 
It  suggested  to  him  the  ivory  peak  of  an  Alp,  the 
luminous  pallor  of  a  pearl.  What  other  young  man 
in  London  looked  like  that?  Valentine  was  indeed  an 
unique  figure  in  the  modern  London  world.  Had  he 
strayed  into  it  from  the  fragrant  pages  of  a  missal,  or 
condescended  to  it  from  the  beatific  vistas  of  some  far-off 
Paradise?  Julian  had  often  wondered,  as  he  looked 
into  the  clear,  calm  eyes  of  the  friend  who  had  been  for 
so  long  the  vigilant,  yet  unconscious  guardian  of  his  soul. 
To-night,  as  Valentine  sat  looking  at  the  Christ,  a 
curious  wonder  at  himself  came  into  his  mind.  He  was 
musing  on  the  confession  of  Julian,  so  long  withheld,  so 
shyly  made  at  last.  This  confession  caused  him,  for  the 
first  time,  to  look  self-consciously  upon  himself,  to  stand 
away  from  his  nature,  as  the  artist  stands  away  from  the 
picture  he  is  painting,  and  to  examine  it  with  a  sideways 
head,  with  a  peering,  contracted  gaze.  This  thing  that 
protected  a  soul  from  sin — what  was  it  like?  What  was 
it?  He  could  not  easily  surmise.  He  had  a  clear  vision 
of  the  Christ  soul,  of  the  exquisite  essence  of  a  divine 
individuality  that  prompted  life  to  spring  out  of  death  for 
one  perfect  moment  that  it  might  miraculously  reward  a 
great  human  act  of  humanity.  Yes,  that  soul  floated 
before  him  almost  visibly.  He  could  call  it  up  before 
his  mind  as  a  man  can  call  up  the  vision  of  a  supremely 
beautiful  rose  he  has  admired.  And  there  was  a  scent 
from  the  Christ  soul  as  ineffably  delicious  as  the  scent 
of  the  rose.  But  when  Valentine  tried  to  see  his  own 
soul,  he  could  not  see  it.  He  could  not  comprehend  how 
its  aspect  affected  others,  even  quite  how  it  affected 
Julian.  Only  he  could  comprehend,  as  he  looked  at  the 
Christ,  its  imperfection,  and  a  longing,  not  felt  before, 
came  to  him  to  be  better  than  he  was.  This  new  aspira- 
tion was  given  to  him  by  Julian's  confession.  He  knew 
that  well.  He  protected  his  friend  now  without  effort. 
Could  he  not  protect  him  more  certainly  with  effort? 
Can  a  soul  be  beautiful  that  never  strives  consciously 
after  beauty?    A  child's  nature  is  beautiful  in  its  inno- 


THE    SECOND   SITTING  21 

cence  because  it  has  never  striven  to  be  innocent.  But 
is  not  an  innocent  woman  more  wonderful,  more  beauti- 
ful, than  an  innocent  child?  Valentine  felt  within  him 
that  night  a  distinct  aspiration,  and  he  vaguely  connected 
it  with  the  drooping  Christ,  who  touched  with  wan,  re- 
warding lips  the  ardent  face  of  the  merciful  knight. 
And  he  no  longer  had  the  desire  to  know  desire  of  sin. 
He  no  longer  sought  to  understand  the  power  of  tempta- 
tion or  the  joy  of  yielding  to  that  power.  A  subtle 
change  swept  over  him.  Whether  it  was  permanent,  or 
only  passing,  he  could  not  tell. 

A  tingling  cry  from  the  electric  bell  in  the  passage 
told  of  Julian's  arrival,  and  in  a  moment  he  entered. 
He  looked  gay,  almost  rowdy,  and  clapped  Valentine  on 
the  shoulder  rather  boisterously. 

"Why  on  earth  are  you  in  here?"  he  exclaimed. 
"  Have  you  been  playing?" 

"No." 

"Are you  in  an  exalted  state  of  mind,  that  demands 
the  best  parlour  for  its  environment?  " 

"Hardly." 

"  But  why  then  have  you  let  out  the  fire  in  the  den 
and  enthroned  yourself  here?  " 

"A  whim,  Julian.  I  felt  a  strong  inclination  to  sit  in 
this  room  to-night.  It  seems  to  me  a  less  nervous  room 
than  the  other,  and  I  want  to  be  as  cold-blooded  as 
possible." 

"  O,  I  see!  But,  my  dear  fellow,  what  is  there 
nervous  about  the  tent?  Do  you  imagine  ghosts  lurking 
in  the  hangings,  or  phantoms  of  dead  Arabs  clinging, 
like  bats,  round  that  rosette  in  the  roof?  You  got  it  up 
the  Nile,  did  n't  you?  " 

"  Yes.     Where  have  you  been?  " 

"  Dining  out.  And,  oddly  enough,  I  met  Marr  again, 
the  man  I  told  you  about.  It  seems  he  is  in  universal 
request  just  now." 

"On  account  of  his  mystery-mongering,  I  suppose." 

"Probably." 

"  Did  you  tell  him  anything  about  our  sitting  ?  " 

"Only  that  we  had  sat,  and  that  nothing  had  hap- 
pened." 


M  FLAMES 

•♦What  did  he  say?" 

"He  said,  'Pooh,  pooh!  these  processes  are,  and 
always  must  be,  gradual.  Another  time  there  may  be 
some  manifestation.'" 

"  Manifestation!  Did  you  ask  him  of  what  nature  the 
manifestation  was  likely  to  be  ?  These  people  are  so 
vague  in  the  terms  they  employ." 

"Yes,  I  asked  him;  but  I  could  n't  get  much  out  of 
him.  I  must  tell  you,  Val,  that  he  seemed  curiously 
doubtful  about  my  statement  that  nothing  had  happened. 
I  can't  think  why.     He  said,    '  Are  you  quite  sure?  *  " 

"  Of  course  you  answered  Yes?  " 

*'  Of  course." 

Valentine  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  and  then  said: 

"You  didn't  mention  the — the  curtain  by  any 
chance? " 

"No.  You  thought  you  had  left  it  only  partially 
drawn,  did  n't  you?  " 

Valentine  made  no  reply.  His  face  was  rather  grave. 
Julian  did  not  repeat  the  question  He  felt  instinctively 
that  Valentine  did  not  wish  to  be  obliged  to  answer  it. 
Oddly  enough,  during  the  short  silence  which  followed, 
he  was  conscious  of  a  slight  constraint  such  as  he  had 
certainly  never  felt  with  Valentine  before.  His  gaiety 
seemed  dropping  from  him  in  this  quiet  room  to  which 
he  was  so  often  a  visitor.  The  rowdy  expression  faded 
out  of  his  face  and  he  found  himself  glancing  half  fur- 
tively at  his  friend. 

"Valentine,"  he  presently  said,  "shall  we  really  sit 
to-night? " 

"Yes,  surely.  You  meant  to  when  you  came  here, 
did  n't  you?  " 

"  I  do  n't  believe  there  is  anything  in  it. " 

"We  will  find  out.  Remember  that  I  want  to  get 
hold  of  your  soul." 

Julian  laughed. 

"  If  you  ever  do  it  will  prove  an  old  man  of  the  sea 
to  you,"  he  said. 

"  I  will  risk  that,"  Valentine  answered. 

And  then  he  added: 


THE   SECOND   SITTING  23 

"But,  come,  do  n't  let  us  waste  time.  I  will  go  and 
send  away  Wade.     Clear  that  little  table  by  the  piano." 

Julian  began  removing  the  photographs  and  books 
which  stood  on  it,  while  Valentine  went  out  of  the  room 
and  told  his  man  to  go. 

As  soon  as  they  heard  the  front  door  close  upon  him 
they  sat  down  opposite  to  each  other  as  on  the  previous 
night. 

They  kept  silence  and  sat  for  what  seemed  a  very 
longtime.     At  last  Julian  said: 

"Val!  " 

"Well?" 

"  Let  us  go  back  into  the  tentroom." 

"Why?" 

"  Nothing  will  ever  happen  here." 

"Why  should  anything  happen  there?  " 

"  I  do  n't  know.  Let  us  go.  The  fire  is  burning  too 
brightly  here.     We  ought  to  have  complete  darkness. " 

"Very  well,  though  I  can't  believe  it  will  make  the 
slightest  difference." 

They  got  up  and  went  into  the  tentroom,  which 
looked  rather  cheerless  with  its  fireless  grate. 

"  I  know  this  will  be  better,"  Julian  said.  "We'll 
have  the  same  table  as  last  night." 

Valentine  carefully  drew  the  green  curtain  quite  over 
the  door  and  called  Julian's  attention  to  the  fact  that  he 
had  done  so.  Then  they  sat  down  again.  Rip  lay  on 
the  divan  in  his  basket  with  a  rug  over  him,  so  that  he 
might  not  disturb  them  by  any  movement  in  search  of 
warmth  and  of  companionship. 

The  arrangements  seemed  careful  and  complete.  They 
were  absolutely  isolated  from  the  rest  of  the  world.  They 
were  in  darkness  and  the  silence  might  almost  be  felt. 
As  Julian  said,  they  were  safe  from  trickery,  and,  as 
Valentine  rejoined  in  his  calm  voix  d'or^  they  were  there- 
fore probably  also  safe  from  what  Marr  had  mysteri- 
ously called   "manifestations." 

Dead,  dumb  silence.  Their  four  hands,  not  touching, 
lay  loosely  on  the  oval  table.  Rip  slept  unutterably, 
shrouded  head  and  body  in  his  cosy  rug.     So — till  the 


34  FLAMES 

last  gleam  of  the  fire  faded.  So — till  another  twenty 
minutes  had  passed.  The  friends  had  not  exchanged  a 
word,  had  scarcely  made  the  slightest  movement.  Could 
a  stranger  have  been  suddenly  introduced  into  the  black 
room,  and  have  remained  listening  attentively,  he  might 
easily  have  been  deceived  into  the  belief  that,  but  for 
himself,  it  was  deserted.  To  both  Valentine  and  Julian 
the  silence  seemed  progressive.  With  each  gliding 
moment  they  could  have  declared  that  it  grew  deeper, 
more  dense,  more  prominent,  even  more  grotesque  and 
living.  There  seemed  to  be  a  sort  of  pressure  in  it 
which  handled  them  more  and  more  definitely.  The 
sensation  was  interesting  and  acute.  Each  gave  himself 
to  it,  and  each  had  a,  perhaps  deceptive,  consciousness 
of  yielding  up  something,  something  impalpable,  evan- 
escent, fluent.  Valentine,  more  especially,  felt  as  if  he 
were  pouring  away  from  himself,  by  this  act  of  sitting,  a 
vital  liquid,  and  he  thought  with  a  mental  smile: 

"  Am  I  letting  my  soul  out  of  its  cage,  here  and  now?" 

"No  doubt,"  his  common  sense  replied;  "no  doubt 
this  sensation  is  the  merest  fancy." 

He  played  with  it  in  the  darkness,  and  had  no  feeling 
of  weariness. 

Nearly  an  hour  had  passed  in  this  morose  way,  when, 
with,  it  seemed,  appalling  abruptness.  Rip  barked. 

Although  the  bark  was  half  stifled  in  rug,  both  Valen- 
tine and  Julian  started  perceptibly. 

"'Sh!"  Valentine  hissed  to  the  little  dog.  "'Sh! 
Rip!     Quiet!" 

The  response  of  Rip  was,  with  a  violent  scramble,  to 
disentangle  himself  from  his  covering,  emerging  from 
which  he  again  barked  with  shrill  and  piercing  vehe- 
mence, at  the  same  time  leaping  to  the  floor.  By  the 
sound,  which  he  could  locate,  Valentine  felt  certain  that 
the  dog  had  gone  over  to  the  door. 

"What  on  earth  is  he  barking  at?  "  Julian  said  in  the 
darkness. 

"  I  can't  imagine.     Hush,  Rip!     S-sh!" 

"  Val,  turn  on  the  light,  quick !    You  're  nearest  to  it. " 

Valentine  stretched  out  his  hand  hastily,  and  in  a 
flash  the  room  sprang  into  view.     He  was  right.     Rip 


THE   SECOND   SITTING  25 

was  crouched — his  front  legs  extended  along  the  floor, 
his  hind  legs  standing  almost  straight — close  to  the  door, 
and  facing  it  full.  His  head  was  down,  and  moving, 
darting  this  way  and  that,  as  if  he  were  worrying  the 
feet  of  some  person  who  was  trying  to  advance  from  the 
door  into  the  centre  of  the  room.  All  his  teeth  showed, 
and  his  yellow  eyes  were  glaring  fiercely. 

Julian,  who  had  thrown  a  hasty  and  searching  glance 
round  the  room  when  the  light  was  turned  on,  sprang 
forward  and  bent  down  to  him. 

"  Rip!  Rip!  "  he  said.  "  Silly!  What 's  the  matter? 
Silly  dog!  "  and  he  began  to  stroke  him. 

Either  this  action  of  his,  or  something  else  not  known 
by  the  young  men,  had  an  effect  on  the  terrier,  for  he 
suddenly  ceased  barking,  and  began  to  snuffle  eagerly, 
excitedly,  at  the  bottom  of  the  door. 

**  It 's  as  if  he  were  mad,"  said  Julian,  turning  round. 
"Hulloh,  Val!     What  the  devil 's  come  to  you?  " 

For  he  found  Valentine  standing  up  by  the  table  with 
an  expression  of  deep  astonishment  on  his  face. 

He  pointed  in  silence  to  the  door. 

"By  Jove!  that  curtain  again!  "  said  Julian,  with  an 
accent  of  amazement.      *'I  'm  damned!  " 

The  curtain  was,  in  fact,  drawn  back  from  the  door. 
Valentine  struck  a  match  and  put  it  to  a  candle.  Then 
he  opened  the  door.  Rip  immediately  darted  out  of  the 
room  and  pattered  excitedly  down  the  passage,  as  if 
searching  for  something,  his  sharp  nose  investigating 
the  ground  with  a  vehement  attention.  The  young  men 
followed  him.  He  ran  to  the  front  door,  then  back  into 
Valentine's  bedroom;  then,  by  turns,  into  the  four  other 
apartments — bedroom,  drawing-room,  bathroom  and 
kitchen — that  formed  the  suite.  The  doors  of  the  two 
latter  were  opened  by  Valentine.  Having  completed 
this  useless  progress,  Rip  once  more  resorted  to  the 
passage  and  the  front  door,  by  which  he  paused,  whim- 
pering, in  an  uncertain,  almost  a  wistful  attitude. 

"  Open  it!  "  said  Julian. 

Valentine  did  so. 

They  looked  out  upon  the  broad  and  dreary  stone 
steps,  and  waited,  listening.     There  was  no  sound.     Rip 


26  FLAMES 

still  whimpered,  rather  feebly.  His  excitement  was  evi- 
dently dying  away.  At  last  Valentine  shut  the  door, 
and  they  went  back  again  to  the  tentroom,  accompanied 
closely  by  the  dog,  who  gradually  regained  his  calmness, 
and  who  presently  jumped  of  his  own  accord  into  his 
basket,  and,  after  turning  quickly  round  some  half- 
dozen  times,  composed  himself  once  more  to  sleep. 

*'  I  wish,  after  all,  we  had  stayed  in  the  other  room 
by  the  fire,"  Julian  said.      "Give  me  some  brandy." 

Valentine  poured  some  into  a  glass  and  Julian  swal- 
lowed it  at  a  gulp. 

"We  mustn't  have  Rip  in  the  room  another  time," 
he  added.     "  He  spoilt  the  whole  thing. " 

"  What  whole  thing?  "  Valentine  asked,  sinking  down 
in  a  chair. 

"Well,  the  sitting.  Perhaps — perhaps  one  of  Marr's 
mysterious  manifestations  might  have  come  off  to- 
night." 

Valentine  did  not  reply  at  first.  When  he  did,  he 
startled  Julian  by  saying: 

"  Perhaps  one  of  them  did  come  off." 

"Did?" 

**Yes." 

"How?" 

"  What  was  Rip  barking  at?  " 

"  There  's  no  accounting  for  what  dogs  will  do.  They 
often  bark  at  shadows." 

"  At  shadows — yes,  exactly.  But  what  cast  a  shadow 
to-night?  " 

Julian  laughed  with  some  apparent  uneasiness. 

"  Perhaps  a  coming  event,"  he  exclaimed. 

Valentine  looked  at  him  rather  gravely. 

"That  is  exactly  what  I  felt,"  he  said. 

"Explain.     For  I  was  only  joking. " 

"I  felt,  perhaps  it  was  only  a  fancy,  that  this  second 
sitting  of  ours  brought  some  event  a  stage  nearer,  a 
stage  nearer  on  its  journey." 

"To  what?" 

"I  felt  — to  us." 

"  Fancy." 

"  Probably.     You  did  n't  feel  it?  " 


THE   SECOND    SITTING  27 

**I?  Oh,  I  scarcely  know  what  I  felt,  I  must  say, 
though,  that  squatting  in  the  dark,  and  saying  nothing 
for  such  an  age,  and  —  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  doesn't 
exactly  toughen  one's  nerves.  That  little  demon  of  a 
Rip  quite  gave  me  the  horrors  when  he  started  barking. 
What  fools  we  are!  I  should  think  nothing  of  mounting 
a  dangerous  horse,  or  sailing  a  boat  in  rough  weather, 
or  risking  my  life  as  we  all  do  half  our  time  in  one  way 
or  another.  Yet  a  dog  and  a  dark  room  give  me  the 
shudders.     Funny,   Val,  isn't  it?" 

Valentine  answered,  "If  it  is  a  dog  and  a  dark 
room. ' ' 

"What  else  can  it  possibly  be?"  Julian  said  with  an 
accent  of  rather  unreasonable  annoyance. 

"I  do  n't  know.  But  I  did  draw  the  curtain  com- 
pletely over  the  door  to-night.  Julian,  I  am  getting  in- 
terested in  this.  Perhaps  —  who  knows?  —  in  the  end  I 
shall  have  your  soul,  you  mine." 

He  laughed  as  he  spoke;  then  added: 

"No,  no;  I  don't  believe  in  such  an  exchange;  and, 
Julian,  I  scarcely  desire  it.  But  let  us  go  on.  This 
gives  a  slight  new  excitement  to  life," 

"Yes.  But  it  is  selfish  of  you  to  wish  to  keep  your 
soul  to  yourself.  I  want  it.  Well,  au  revoir^  Val;  to- 
morrow night." 

"  ^2Z  revotr.^' 

After  Julian  had  gone  Valentine  went  back  into  the 
drawing-room  and  stood  for  a  long  while  before  the 
"Merciful  Knight."  He  had  a  strange  fancy  that  the 
picture  of  the  bending  Christ  protected  the  room  from 
the  intrusion  of — what? 

He  could  not  tell  yet.     Perhaps  he  could  never  tell. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  THIRD  SITTING 

"Is n't  it  an  extraordinary  thing,"  Julian  said,  on 
the  following  evening,  "that  if  you  meet  a  man  once 
in  London  you  keep  knocking  up  against  him  day  after 
day?    While,  if  —  " 

"You  don't  meet  him,  you  don't." 

♦*  No.  I  mean  that  if  you  do  n't  happen  to  be  intro- 
duced to  him,  you  probably  never  set  eyes  on  him  at  all." 

**  I  know.     But  whom  have  you  met  to-day? ' ' 

'*  Marr  again." 

**  That 's  odd.     He  is  beginning  to  haunt  you. " 

"  I  met  him  at  my  club.  He  has  just  been  elected  a 
member." 

*'  Did  he  make  any  more  inquiries  into  our  sittings?  " 

"Rather.  He  talked  of  nothing  else.  He's  an  ex- 
traordinary fellow,  extraordinary." 

"Why?     What  is  he  like?  " 

"In  appearance?  Oh,  the  sort  of  chap  little  pink 
women  call  Satanic;  white  complexion  showing  blue 
where  he  shaves,  big  dark  eyes  rather  sunken,  black 
hair,  tall,  very  thin  and  quiet.  Very  well  dressed.  He 
is  that  uncanny  kind  of  a  man  who  has  a  silent  man- 
ner and  a  noisy  expression.     You  know  what  I  mean?  " 

"Yes,  perfectly." 

"I  think  he's  very  morbid.  He  never  reads  the 
evening  papers. " 

"  That  proves  it  absolutely.     Does  he  smoke?" 

"Always.  I  found  him  in  the  smoking-room.  He 
showed  the  most  persistent  interest  in  our  proceedings, 
Val.  I  couldn't  get  him  to  talk  of  anything  else,  so  at 
last  I  told  him  exactly  what  had  happened. " 

"  Did  you  tell  him  that  we  began  to  sit  last  night  in 
a  different  room? " 

28 


THE    THIRD   SITTING  29 

**Yes.  That  was  curious.  Directly  I  said  it  he  be- 
gan making  minute  inquiries  as  to  what  the  room  was 
like,  how  the  furniture  was  placed,  even  what  pictures 
hung  on  the  walls." 

"The  pictures!  " 

"Yes.     I  described  them. " 

"All  of  them?" 

"  No,  one  or  two ;  that  favorite  of  yours,  '  The  Merci- 
ful Knight,'  the  Turner,  those  girls  of  Solomon's  with 
the  man  playing  to  them,  and  —  yes,  I  think  those  were 
all." 

"Oh!" 

"He  said,  'You  made  a  great  mistake  in  changing 
your  venue  to  that  room,  a  great  mistake.*  Then  I  ex- 
plained how  we  moved  back  to  the  tentroom  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  sitting,  and  all  about  Rip." 

"  Did  he  make  any  remark?  " 

**  One  that  struck  me  as  very  quaint,  '  You  are  en 
route.''  " 

"  Enigmatic  again.      He  was  playing  the  wizard." 

"  He  spoke  very  gravely." 

"  Of  course.      Great  gravity  is  part  of  the  business. 

"Afterwards  he  said,  'Turn  that  dog  out  next 
time.'  " 

"And  that  was  all?" 

"I  think  so." 

Valentine  sat  musing.     Presently  he  said: 

"  I  should  rather  like  to  meet  this  Marr. " 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  —  I  fancy  —  " 

"Well?" 

"  I  'd  as  soon  you  did  n't." 

"Why?" 

"I  don't  think  you'd  get  on.  You  would  n't  like 
him." 

"  For  what  reason?  " 

"I  do  n't  know.  I  've  a  notion  he  's  something  ex- 
ceptional in  the  way  of  a  blackguard.  Perhaps  I  am 
wrong.  I  have  n't  an  idea  what  sort  of  a  reputation  he 
has.  But  he  is  black,  Valentine,  not  at  all  your  colour. 
Oh!  and,  by  the  way,  he  does  n't  want  to  meet  you." 

' '  How  charming  of  him !  " 


3©  FLAMES 

**  I  had  half  suggested  it,  I  do  n't  know  why,  and  he 
said,  'Thanks!  Thanks!  Chance  will  bring  us  together 
later  on  if  we  ought  to  meet. '  And  now  I  am  glad  he 
was  n't  keen.  Shall  we  begin?  Put  Rip  into  your  bed- 
room, as  he  advised.  Besides,  I  can't  stand  his  bark- 
ing." 

Valentine  carried  the  little  dog  away.  When  he  came 
back  he  shut  the  tentroom  door  and  was  about  to  draw 
the  curtain  over  it.     But  Julian  stopped  him. 

"No,  do  n't,"  Julian  said. 

"Why  not?" 

"  I  would  rather  you  did  n't.  I  hate  that  curtain.  If 
I  were  you  I  would  have  it  taken  down  altogether." 

Valentine  looked  at  him  in  surprise.  He  had  uttered 
the  words  with  an  energy  almost  violent.  But  even  as 
Valentine  looked  Julian  switched  off  the  electric  light 
and  the  leaping  darkness  hid  his  face. 

"Come  now.     Business!     Business!  "  he  cried. 

And  again  they  sat  with  their  hands  loosely  on  the 
table,  not  touching  each  other. 

Valentine  felt  that  Julian  was  being  less  frank  with 
him  than  usual.  Perhaps  for  this  reason  he  was  imme- 
diately conscious  that  they  were  not  so  much  in  sympa- 
thy as  on  the  two  former  occasions  of  their  sittings.  Or 
there  might  have  been  some  other  reason  which  he  could 
not  identify.  It  is  certain  that  he  graduall}^  became 
acutely  aware  of  a  stifling  sense  of  constraint,  which  he 
believed  to  be  greatly  intensified  by  the  surrounding 
darkness  and  silence.  He  wondered  if  Julian  was  con- 
scious of  it  also,  and  at  moments  longed  to  ask.  But 
something  held  him  back,  that  curious  something  which 
we  all  feel  at  times  like  a  strong  hand  laid  upon  us.  He 
made  up  his  mind  that  this  discomfort  of  his  soul,  unrea- 
sonably considerable  though  it  was,  must  be  due  solely 
to  Julian's  abrupt  demeanour  and  obvious  desire  to  check 
his  curiosity  about  the  drawing  of  the  curtain.  But,  as 
the  moments  ran  by,  his  sense  of  uneasiness  assumed 
such  fantastic  proportions  that  he  began  to  cast  about  for 
some  more  definite,  more  concrete,  cause.  At  one  instant 
he  found  it  in  the  condition  of  his  health.  The  day  had 
been  damp  and  dreary,  and  he  had  suffered  from  neural- 


THE   THIRD   SITTING  31 

gia.  Doubtless  the  pain  had  acted  upon  his  nervous 
system,  and  was  accountable  for  his  present  and  perpet- 
ually increasing  anxiety.  A  little  later  he  was  fain  to 
dismiss  this  supposition  as  untenable.  His  sense  of  con- 
straint was  changing  into  a  positive  dread,  and  not  at  all 
of  Julian,  around  whom  he  had  believed  that  his  thoughts 
were  in  flight.  Something,  he  knew  not  at  all  what,  in- 
terposed between  him  and  Julian,  and  so  definitely  that 
Valentine  felt  as  if  he  could  have  fixed  the  exact  mo- 
ment in  which  the  interposition  had  taken  place,  as 
one  can  fix  the  exact  moment  in  which  a  person  enters 
a  room  where  one  is  sitting.  And  the  interposition 
was  one  of  great  horror, — entirely  malignant,  Valentine 
believed. 

He  had  an  impulse  to  spring  up  from  the  table,  to 
turn  on  the  light,  and  to  say,  "Let  us  make  an  end  of 
this  jugglery!  "  Yet  he  sat  still,  wondering  why  he  did 
so.  A  curiosity  walked  in  his  mind,  pacing  about  till 
he  could  almost  fancy  he  heard  its  footsteps.  He  sat, 
then,  as  one  awaiting  an  arrival,  that  has  been  heralded 
in  some  way,  by  a  telegram,  a  message,  a  carrier-pigeon 
flown  in  at  an  open  window.  But  the  herald,  too,  was 
horrible.  What  then  would  follow  it?  What  was  com- 
ing? Valentine  felt  that  he  began  to  understand  Marr's 
queer  remark, "  You  are  en  route.'"  At  the  first  sitting  he 
had  felt  a  very  vague  suggestion  of  immoderate  possibili- 
ties,made  possibilities  by  the  apparently  futile  position  as- 
sumed at  a  table  by  himself  and  Julian.  To-night  the 
vague  seemed  on  march  towards  the  definite.  Fancy  was 
surely  moving  towards  fact. 

With  his  eyes  wide  open  Valentine  gazed  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Julian,  sitting  invisible  opposite  to  him.  He  won- 
dered how  Julian  was  feeling,  what  he  was  thinking.  And 
then  he  remembered  that  strange  saying  of  Marr's,  that 
thoughts  could  take  form,  materialize.  What  would  he 
give  to  witness  that  monstrous  procession  of  embodied 
brain-actions  trooping  from  the  mind  of  his  friend!  He 
imagined  them  small,  spare,  phantom-like  things,  fringed 
with  fire,  as  weapon  against  the  darkness,  silent-footed 
as  spirits,  moving  with  a  level  impetus,  as  pale  ghosts 
treading  a  sea,   onward  to  the  vast  world  of  clashing 


32  FLAMES 

minds,  to  which  we  carelessly  cast  out  our  thoughts  as  a 
man  who  shoots  rubbish  into  a  cart.  The  vagrant  fan- 
cies danced  along  with  attenuated  steps  and  tiny,  whim- 
sical gestures  of  fairies,  fluttering  their  flame-veined 
wings.  The  sad  thoughts  moved  slowly  with  drooped 
heads  and  monotonous  hands,  and  tears  fell  forever 
about  their  feet.  The  thoughts  that  were  evil  —  and 
Julian  had  acknowledged  them  many,  though  combatted 
—  were  endowed  with  a  strangely  sinister  gait,  like  the 
gait  of  those  modern  sinners  who  express,  ignorantly,  in 
their  motions  the  hidden  deeds  their  tongues  decline  to 
speak.  The  wayward  thoughts  had  faces  like  women, 
who  kiss  and  frown  within  the  limits  of  an  hour.  On  the 
cheeks  of  the  libertine  thoughts  a  rosy  cloud  of  rouge 
shone  softly,  and  their  haggard  eyes  were  brightened  by  a 
cunning  pigment.  And  the  noble  thoughts,  grand  in  gest- 
ure, godlike  in  bearing,  did  not  pass  them  by,  but  spoke 
to  them  serene  words,  and  sought  to  bring  them  out 
from  their  degradation.  And  there  was  no  music  in  this 
imagined  procession  which  Valentine  longed  to  see.  All 
was  silent  as  from  the  gulf  of  Julian's  mind  the  inhabit- 
ants stole  furtively  to  do  their  mission.  Yes,  Valentine 
knew  to-night  that  he  should  feel  no  wonder  if  thought 
took  form,  if  a  disembodied  voice  spoke,  or  a  detached 
hand  moved  into  ripples  of  the  air.  Only  he  was  irritated 
and  alarmed  by  the  abiding  sense  of  some  surrounding 
danger,  which  stayed  with  him,  which  he  fought  against 
in  vain.  His  common  sense  had  not  deserted  him.  On 
the  contrary,  it  was  argumentative,  cogent  in  explana- 
tion and  in  rebuke.  It  strove  to  sneer  his  distress  down 
with  stinging  epithets,  and  shot  arrows  of  laughter 
against  his  aimless  fears.  But  the  combat  was,  never- 
theless, tamely  unequal.  Common  sense  was  routed  by 
this  enigmatic  enemy,  and  at  length  Valentine's  spirits 
became  so  violently  perturbed  that  he  could  keep  silence 
no  longer. 

"Julian,"  he  said,  with  a  pressure  of  chained  alarm 
in  his  voice,  "Julian!  " 

"Yes,"  Julian  replied,  tensely. 

"  Anything  wrong  with  you?  " 

**  No,  no.     Or  with  you?  " 


THE   THIRD   SITTING  33 

"Nothing  definite." 

"What  then?" 

"Iwill  confess  to  you  that  to-night  I  feel — I  feel, 
well,  horribly  afraid. " 

"Of  what?" 

"  I  have  no  idea.  The  feeling  is  totally  unreasonable. 
That  gives  it  an  inexplicable  horror." 

"  Ah!  then  that  is  why  you  joined  your  left  hand  with 
my  right  five  minutes  ago.     I  wondered  why  you  did  it." 

"  I!     Joined  hands!  " 

"Yes." 

"  I  have  n't  moved  my  hand. " 

"  My  dear  Val !     How  is  it  holding  mine  then?  " 

"  Do  n't  be  absurd,  Julian ;  my  hand  is  not  near  yours. 
Both  my  hands  are  just  where  they  were  when  we  sat 
down,  on  my  side  of  the  table." 

"  just  where  they  were!  Your  little  finger  has  been 
tightly  linked  in  mine  for  the  last  five  minutes.  You 
know  that  as  well  as  I  do." 

"  Nonsense!  " 

"  But  it  is  linked  now  while  I  am  speaking." 

"I  tell  you  it  isn't." 

"I '11  soon  let  you  know  it  too.  There!  Ah!  no 
wonder  you  have  snatched  it  away.  You  forget  that  my 
muscles  are  like  steel,  and  that  I  can  pinch  as  a  gin 
pinches  a  rabbit's  leg.  I  say,  I  didn't  really  hurt  you, 
did  I?     It  was  only  a  joke  to  stop  your  little  game." 

"  I  tell  you, "  Valentine  said,  almost  angrily,  "your 
hand  has  never  once  touched  mine,  nor  mine  yours." 

His  accent  of  irritable  sincerity  appeared  suddenly  to 
carry  conviction  to  the  mind  of  Julian,  for  he  sprang 
violently  up  from  the  table,  and  cried,  in  the  darkness: 

"  Then  who  the  devil 's  in  the  room  with  us?  " 

Valentine  also,  convinced  that  Julian  had  not  been 
joking,  was  appalled.  He  switched  on  the  light,  and 
saw  Julian  standing  opposite  to  him,  looking  very  white. 
They  both  threw  a  rapid  glance  upon  the  room,  whose 
dull  green  draperies  returned  their  inquiry  with  the  com- 
plete indifference  of  artistic  inanimation. 

"  Who  the  devil 's  got  in  here?  "  Julian  repeated,  with 
the  savage  accent  of  extreme  uneasiness. 


34  FLAMES 

"Nobody,"  Valentine  replied.  "You  know  the 
thing  's  impossible. 

"  Impossible  or  not,  somebody  has  found  means  to 
get  in." 

Valentine  shook  his  head. 

"  Then  you  were  lying?  " 

"  Julian,  what  are  you  saying?     Do  n't  go  too  far." 

*'  Either  you  were,  or  else  a  man  has  been  sitting  at 
that  table  between  us,  and  I  have  held  his  hand,  the 
hand  of  some  stranger.     Ouf !  " 

He  shook  his  broad  shoulders  in  an  irrepressible 
shudder, 

"  I  was  not  lying,  Julian.     I  tell  you  so,  and  I  mean  it. " 

Valentine's  eyes  met  Julian's,  and  Julian  believed  him. 

"  Put  your  hands  on  the  table  again,"  Julian  said. 

Valentine  obeyed,  and  Julian  laid  his  beside  them, 
linking  one  of  his  little  fingers  tightly  in  one  of  Valen- 
tine's, and  at  the  same  time  shutting  his  eyes.  After 
a  long  pause  he  grew  visibly  whiter,  and  hastily  unlinked 
his  finger. 

"  No,  damn  it,  Val,  I  had  n't  hold  of  your  hand. 
The  hand  I  touched  was  much  harder,  and  the  finger  was 
bigger,  thicker.     I  say,  this  is  ghastly." 

Again  he  shook  himself,  and  cast  a  searching  glance 
upon  the  little  room. 

*'  Somebody  has  been  in  here  with  us,  sitting  between 
us  in  the  dark,"  he  repeated.      *'  Good  God,  who  is  it?  " 

Valentine  looked  doubtful,  but  uneasy  too. 

*'  Let  us  go  through  the  rooms,"  he  said. 

They  took  a  candle,  and,  as  on  the  previous  night, 
searched,  but  in  vain.  They  found  no  trace  of  any  alien 
presence  in  the  flat.  No  book,  no  ornament,  had  been 
moved.  No  door  stood  open.  There  was  no  sound  of 
any  footsteps  except  their  own.  When  they  came  to 
Valentine's  bedroom,  Rip  leaped  to  greet  them,  and 
seemed  in  excellent  spirits.  He  showed  no  excitement 
until  he  had  followed  them  back  into  the  tentroom. 
But,  arrived  there,  he  suddenly  stood  still,  raised  one 
white  paw  from  the  ground,  and  emitted  a  long  and 
dreary  howl.  The  young  men  stared  at  him,  and  then 
at  each  other. 


THE   THIRD   SITTING  35 

**  Rip  knows  somebody  has  been  here,"  Julian  said, 

Valentine  was  much  more  uncomfortably  impressed 
by  the  demeanour  of  the  dog  than  by  Julian's  declaration 
and  subsequent  agitation.  He  had  been  inclined  to 
attribute  the  whole  affair  to  a  trick  of  his  friend's  nerves. 
But  the  nervous  system  of  a  fox-terrier  was  surely,  under 
such  circumstances  as  these,  more  truth-telling  than 
that  of  a  man. 

"  But  the  thing  is  absolutely  impossible,"  he  re- 
peated, with  some  disturbance  of  manner. 

'*  Is  anything  that  we  can't  investigate  straight  away 
absolutely  impossible?  " 

Valentine  did  not  reply  directly. 

"  Here  is  a  cigarette, "  he  said.  "  Let  us  sit  down, 
soothe  our  nerves,  and  talk  things  over  calmly  and 
openly.  We  have  not  been  quite  frank  with  each  other 
about  these  sittings  yet." 

Julian  accepted  Valentine's  offer  with  his  usual  readi- 
ness. The  fire  was  relit  with  some  difficulty.  Rip  was 
coaxed  into  silence. 

Presently,  as  the  smoke  curled  upward  with  its  lazy 
demeanour,  the  horror  that  had  hung  like  a  thin  vapour 
in  the  atmosphere  seemed  to  be  dissipated. 

*'  Now  I  think  we  are  ourselves  again,  and  can  be 
reasonable,"  Valentine  began.  "  Do  n't  let  us  be 
hysterical.     Spiritualists  always  suffer  from  hysteria." 

'*  The  sceptics  say,  Val." 

"  And  probably  they  are  generally  right.  Now — yes, 
do  drink  some  more  of  that  brandy  and  soda.  Now, 
Julian,  do  you  still  believe  that  a  hand  held  yours 
just  now?  " 

Julian  answered  quietly,  showing  no  irritation  at  the 
question: 

"  I  simply  know  it  as  surely  as  I  know  that  I  am 
sitting  with  you  at  this  moment.  And, — look  here,  you 
may  laugh  at  me  as  much  as  you  like, — although  I  sup- 
posed the  hand  to  be  yours,  until  you  denied  it  I  had 
previously  felt  the  most  curious  sensation." 

"Of  what?" 

"  Well,  that  something  was  coming,  even  had  actually 
come,  into  the  room." 


36  FLAMES 

Valentine  answered  nothing  to  this,  so  Julian  went  on. 

"I  thought  it  was  a  trick  of  the  nerves,  and  deter- 
mined to  drive  it  away,  and  I  succeeded.  And  then, 
just  as  I  was  internally  laughing  at  myself,  this  hand,  as 
if  groping  about  in  the  dark,  was  first  laid  on  mine,  full 
on  it,  Val,  and  then  slid  off  onto  the  table  and  linked 
its  little  finger  tightly  in  mine.  I,  of  course,  supposed 
the  hand  was  yours,  and  this  finger  was  crooked  round 
mine  for  fully  five  minutes,  I  should  say.  After  you 
spoke,  thinking  that  you  were  trying  to  deceive  me  for  a 
joke,  I  caught  the  hand  in  mine,  and  pinched  it  with  all 
my  strength  until  it  was  forcibly  dragged  away." 

"Strange,"  Valentine  murmured. 

"  Deucedly  strange!  and,  what's  more,  diabolically 
unpleasant." 

"  I  wonder  what  that  fellow,  Marr,  would  say  to  this." 

"Marr!  By  Jove,  is  this  one  of  the  manifestations 
which  he  spoke  about  so  vaguely?  " 

"  It  seems  like  it." 

*'  But  describe  your  sensations.  You  say  you  felt 
horribly  afraid.     Why  was  that?  " 

**  I  can't  tell.  That,  I  think,  made  part  of  the 
horror.  There  was  a  sort  of  definite  vagueness,  if  you 
can  imagine  such  a  seeming  contradiction,  in  my  state 
of  mind.  But  the  feeling  is  really  indescribable.  That 
it  was  more  strange  and  more  terrible  than  anything  I 
have  known  is  certain.  I  should  like  to  ask  Dr.  Levil- 
lier  about  all  this." 

"  Levillier — yes.     But  he  would — " 

*'  Be  reasonable  about  it,  as  he  is  about  everything. 
Dear,  sensible,  odd,  saintly,  emotional,  strong-headed, 
soft-hearted  little  doctor.     He  is  unique." 

They  talked  on  for  some  time,  arriving  at  no  conclu- 
sion, until  it  seemed  they  had  talked  the  whole  matter 
thoroughly  out.  Yet  Valentine,  who  was  curiously  in- 
stinctive, had,  all  the  time,  a  secret  knowledge  that 
Julian  was  keeping  something  from  him,  was  not  being 
perfectly  frank.  The  conviction  pained  him.  At  last 
Julian  got  up  to  go.     He  stood  putting  on  his  overcoat. 

"Good-night,"  he  said. 

"Good-night,  Julian." 


THE   THIRD   SITTING  37 

**  Now — is  this  to  be  our  last  sitting?  " 

Valentine  hesitated. 

"What  do  you  wish?"  he  asked  at  length. 

"What  do  you?" 

"  Well,  I — yes,  I  think  I  would  rather  it  was  the  last.** 

Julian  caught  his  hand  impulsively. 

"  So  would  I.     Good-night. " 

"Good-night." 

Julian  went  out  into  the  hall,  got  as  far  as  the  front 
door,  opened  it,  then  suddenly  called  out: 

"Valentine!  " 

"Yes." 

"Come  here  for  a  moment." 

Valentine  went,  and  found  him  standing  with  his 
hand  on  the  door,  looking  flushed  and  rather  excited. 

"There  is  one  thing  I  haven't  told  you,"  he  began. 

"I  knew  that." 

"  I  guessed  you  did.  The  most  horrible  sensation  I 
have  had.  During  our  sitting  to-night — don't  be  vexed 
— an  extraordinary  apprehension  of — well,  of  you,  came 
over  me.     There!     Now  I  have  told  you." 

Valentine  was  greatly  astonished. 

"  Of  me?  "  he  said. 

"Yes.  There  was  a  moment  when  the  idea  that  I 
was  alone  with  you  made  my  blood  run  cold." 

"  Good  heavens!  " 

"  Do  you  wish  I  had  n't  told  you?  " 

"No,  of  course  not.  But  it  is  so  extraordinary,  so 
unnatural." 

"  It  is  utterly  gone  now,  thank  God.  I  say,  we  have 
resolved  that  we  won't  sit  again,  haven't  we?" 

"Yes;  and  what  you  have  just  told  me  makes  me 
hate  the  whole  thing.  The  game  seems  a  game  no 
longer." 

When  the  door  had  closed  upon  Julian,  Valentine  sat 
down  and  wrote  a  note. 

He  addressed  it  to — 

"Doctor  Hermann  Levillier, 

"  Harley  Street,  W.," 
and   laid  it  on   his  writing-table,    so  that   it   might   be 
posted  early  the  next  morning. 


CHAPTER   VI 

A   CONVERSATION  AT   THE  CLUB 

Doctor  Levillier  was  not  a  materialist,  although  he 
concerned  himself  much  with  the  functions  of  the  bod^, 
and  with  that  strange  spider's  web  of  tingling  threads 
which  we  call  the  nervous  system.  The  man  who 
sweeps  out  the  temple,  who  polishes  the  marble  steps 
and  dusts  the  painted  windows,  may  yet  find  time  to 
bend  in  prayer  before  the  altars  he  helps  to  keep  beauti- 
ful, may  yet  find  a  heart  to  wonder  at  the  spirit  which 
the  temple  holds  as  an  envelope  holds  a  letter.  Revers- 
ing the  process  of  mind  which  seems  to  lead  so  many 
medical  students  to  atheism.  Dr.  Levillier  had  found  that 
the  more  he  understood  the  weaknesses,  the  nastinesses, 
the  dreary  failures,  the  unimaginable  impulses  of  the  flesh, 
the  more  he  grew  to  believe  in  the  existence,  within  it, 
of  the  soul.  One  day  a  worn-out  dyspeptic,  famous  for 
his  intellectual  acquirements  over  two  continents,  sat 
with  the  little  great  doctor  in  his  consulting-room.  The 
author,  with  dry,  white  lips,  had  been  recounting  a 
series  of  sordid  symptoms,  and,  as  the  recital  grew, 
their  sordidness  seemed  suddenly  to  strike  him  with  a 
mighty  disgust. 

"Ah,  doctor,"  he  said.  "And  do  you  know  there 
are  people  thousands  of  miles  away  from  Harley  Street 
who  actually  admire  me,  who  are  stirred  and  moved  by 
what  I  write,  who  make  a  cult  and  a  hero  of  me.  They 
say  I  have  soul,  forsooth.  But  I  am  all  body;  you  know 
that.  You  doctors  know  that  it  is  only  body  that  we 
put  on  paper,  body  that  lifts  us  high,  or  drags  us  low. 
Why,  my  best  romances  come  straight  from  my  liver. 
My  pathos  springs  from  its  condition  of  disorder,  and 
my  imaginative  force  is  only  due  to  an  unnatural  state 
of  body  which  I  can  deliberately  produce  by  drinking 

38 


A  CONVERSATION   AT   THE   CLUB       39 

tea  that  has  stood  a  long  while  and  become  full  of  tannin. 
When  my  prose  glows  with  fiery  beauty,  the  tea  is  get- 
ting well  hold  of  my  digestive  organs,  and  by  the  time 
it  has  begun  to  prove  its  power  by  giving  me  a 
violent  pain  in  the  stomach,  I  have  wrung  from  it  a  fine 
scene  which  will  help  to  consolidate  my  fame.  When  a 
man  wins  the  Victoria  Cross,  his  healthy  body  has  done 
the  deed,  unprompted  by  anything  higher.  Good  air,  or 
a  muscular  life,  has  strung  his  nerves  strongly  so  that  he 
can't,  even  if  he  would,  appreciate  danger.  On  the 
other  hand,  when  a  man  shows  funk,  turns  tail  and 
bolts,  and  is  dubbed  a  coward,  it 's  his  beastly  body 
again.  Some  obscure  physical  misfortune  is  the  cause 
of  his  disgrace,  and  if  he  'd  only  been  to  you  he  would 
have  won  the  Cross  too.  Isn't  it  so?  How  you  doctors 
must  laugh  at  mystics,  and  at  those  who  are  ascetics, 
save  for  sake  of  their  health.  Why,  I  suppose  even  the 
saint  owes  his  so-called  goodness  to  some  analyzable 
proceeding  that  has  gone  on  in  his  inside,  and  that  you 
could  diagnose.      Eh?" 

Doctor  Levillier  was  writing  a  prescription  in  which 
bismuth  was  an  item.      He  glanced  up  quietly. 

"  The  more  I  know  of  the  body,  the  more  I  think  of 
and  believe  in  the  power  of  the  soul,"  he  said.  "  Have 
that  made  up.  Take  it  three  times  a  day  and  come  to 
me  again  in  a  fortnight.      Good-morning." 

Indeed,  this  little  man  was  writing  prescriptions  for 
the  body  and  thinking  prescriptions  for  the  soul  all  day 
long.  Within  him  there  dwelt  a  double  mind,  the  mind 
of  a  great  doctor  and  the  mind  of  a  great  priest,  and 
these  two  minds  linked  hands  and  lived  as  friends.  The 
one  never  strove  against  the  other.  There  was  never  a 
moment  of  estrangement.  And  if  there  were  frequent 
arguments  and  discussions  between  the  two,  they  were 
the  arguments  and  discussions  that  make  friendship 
firmer,  not  enmity  more  bitter.  And,  as  Dr.  Levillier 
very  well  knew,  it  was  often  the  mind  of  the  priest  within 
him  that  gave  to  him  his  healing  power  over  the  body. 
It  was  the  mind  of  the  priest  that  had  won  him  testi- 
monial clocks  and  silver  salvers  from  grateful  patients. 
Often  as  he  sat  with  some  dingy-faced  complainant,  list. 


40  FLAMES 

ening  to  a  recital  of  sickness  or  uttering  directions  about 
avoidance  of  green  meat,  sauces,  pastry,  and  liquids,  till 
the  atmosphere  seemed  that  of  a  hospital,  a  pastry-cook's 
shop  and  a  bar  combined,  he  was  silently  examining  the 
patient's  soul,  facing  its  probable  vagaries,  mapping  out 
the  tours  it  had  taken,  scheming  for  its  welfare.  And, 
perhaps,  after  the  dietary  was  arranged  and  the  pre- 
scription was  written,  he  would  say  carelessly: 

"  Do  you  read  much?  What  do  you  read?  Ah !  such 
and  such  books.  Yes,  very  interesting.  Do  you  know 
this  book  which  has  struck  me  greatly?  No?  Allow  me 
to  lend  it  to  you.     Good-bye." 

And  the  patient  departed,  ignorant  that  he  had  re- 
ceived a  pill  for  his  soul  from  the  priest  as  well  as  a  pill 
for  his  body  from  the  doctor. 

In  appearance  Dr.  Levillier  was  small,  slight,  and 
delicate  looking.  His  complexion  was  clear  and  white. 
His  eyes  were  blue.  What  hair  he  possessed  was  rather 
soft,  fluffy  and  reddish,  with  a  dash  of  light  brown  in  it. 
He  wore  neither  beard  nor  moustache,  was  always  very 
neatly  and  simply  dressed,  and  was  remarkable  for  his 
polished  boots,  said  to  be  the  most  perfectly  varnished 
in  London.  Although  he  must  have  been  nearly  fifty- 
five,  he  had  never  married,  and  some  people  declared  that 
he  had  the  intention  of  starting  a  new  "  order  "  of  med- 
ical celibates,  who  would  be  father-confessors  as  well  as 
physicians,  and  who  would  pray  for  the  souls  of  their 
patients  after  tending  their  bodily  needs. 

For  some  years  Valentine  had  been  very  intimate 
with  the  doctor,  whom  he  admired  for  his  intellect  and 
loved  for  his  nature.  So  now  he  resolved  to  lay  the  case 
of  the  sittings  with  Julian  before  him  and  hear  his  opin- 
ion of  the  matter.  In  all  their  conversations  Valentine 
could  not  remember  that  they  had  ever  discussed  spirit- 
ualism or  occultism.  As  a  rule,  they  talked  about  books, 
painting,  or  music,  of  which  Dr.  Levillier  was  a  devoted 
lover.  Valentine's  note  asked  the  doctor  to  dine  with 
him  that  night  at  his  club.  The  messenger  brought  back 
an  acceptance. 

They  dined  at  a  corner  table  and  the  room  was  rather 
empty.     A  few  men  chatted  desultorily  of  burlesques, 


A   CONVERSATION   AT   THE    CLUB      41 

horses,  the  legs  of  actresses,  the  chances  of  politics.  The 
waiters  moved  quietly  about  with  pathetic  masks  of  sat- 
isfied servitude.  Valentine  and  the  doctor  conversed 
earnestly. 

At  first  they  spoke  of  a  new  symphony  composed  by 
a  daring  young  Frenchman,  who  had  striven  to  repro- 
duce vices  in  notes  and  to  summon  up  visions  of  things 
damnable  by  harmonic  progressions  which  frequently 
defied  the  laws  of  harmony.  Levillier  gently  condemned 
him  for  putting  a  great  art  to  a  small  and  degraded  use. 

"  His  very  success  makes  me  regret  the  waste  of  his 
time  more  deeply,  Cresswell,"  he  said.  "He  is  a  mar- 
vellous painter  in  sound.  He  has  improved  upon  Ber- 
lioz, if  it  is  improvement  to  cry  sin  with  a  clearer,  more 
determinate  voice.  Think  what  a  heaven  that  man  could 
reproduce  in  music." 

"  Because  he  has  reproduced  a  hell.  But  do  you  think 
that  follows?  Can  the  man  who  wallows  with  force  and 
originality  soar  with  force  and  originality  too?  " 

"  I  believe  he  could  learn  to.  The  main  thing  is  to 
possess  genius  in  any  form,  the  genius  to  imagine,  to 
construct,  to  present  things  that  seize  upon  the  minds  of 
men.  But  to  possess  genius  is  only  a  beginning.  We 
have  to  train  it,  to  lead  it,  to  coax  it  even,  until  it  learns 
to  be  obedient." 

"Genius  and  obedience.  Don't  the  two  terms 
quarrel? " 

"  They  should  not.  Obedience  is  a  very  magnificent 
thing,  Cresswell,  just  as  to  have  to  struggle,  to  be  obliged 
to  fight,  is  a  very  magnificent  thing." 

"Yes,"  Valentine  answered,  thoughtfully.  "I  be- 
lieve you  are  right.  But,  if  you  are  right,  I  have  missed 
a  great  deal  " 

"  How  do  you  deduce  that?  " 

"  In  this  way.  I  have  never  had  to  be  obedient.  I 
have  never  had  to  struggle." 

"Surely  the  latter,"  the  little  doctor  said,  fixing  his 
clear,  kind  eyes  on  Valentine's  face.  "  I  do  n't  think,  in 
all  my  experience,  that  I  have  ever  met  a  man  who  lived 
a  fine,  pure  life  without  fixing  the  bayonet  and  using  the 
sword  at  moments.    There  must  be  an  occasional  melee.^' 


42  FLAMES 

**  Indeed  not;  that  is  to  say,"  Valentine  rather  hastily 
added,  "  as  regards  the  pure  life.  For  I  cannot  lay  claim 
to  anything  fine.  But  I  assure  you  that  my  life  has 
been  pure  without  a  struggle." 

"Without  one?     Think!" 

"Without  one.  Perhaps  that  is  what  wearies  me  at 
mooients,  doctor,  the  completeness  of  my  coldness.  Per- 
haps it  is  this  lack  of  necessity  to  struggle  that  has  at 
last  begun  to  render  me  dissatisfied." 

"  I  thought  you  were  free  from  that  evil  humour  of  dis- 
satisfaction, that  evil  humour  which  crowds  my  consulting- 
rooms  and  wastes  away  the  very  tissues  of  the  body." 

"  I  have  been,  until  quite  lately.  I  have  been  neither 
pessimist  nor  optimist — just  myself,  and  I  believe  happy. " 

"And  what  is  this  change  ?  and  what  has  it  led  to?  " 

"  It  was  to  tell  you  that  I  asked  you  here  to-night." 

They  had  finished  dinner,  and  rose  from  the  table. 
Passing  through  the  hall  of  the  club,  they  went  into  a 
huge  high  room,  papered  with  books.  Valentine  led  the 
way  to  a  secluded  corner,  and  gave  the  doctor  a  cigar. 
When  he  had  lit  it  and  settled  himself  comfortably,  his 
rather  small  feet,  in  their  marvellously  polished  boots, 
lightly  crossed,  his  head  reposing  serenely  on  the  back 
of  his  chair,  Valentine  continued,  answering  his  attentive 
silence. 

"  It  has  led  to  what  I  suppose  you  would  call  an  ab- 
surdity. But  first,  the  change  itself.  A  sort  of  dissat- 
isfaction has  been  creeping  over  me,  perhaps  for  a  long 
while,  I  being  unconscious  of  it.  At  length  I  became 
conscious.  I  found  that  I  was  weary  of  being  so  free 
from  the  impulse  to  sin — to  sin,  I  mean,  in  definite, 
active  ways,  as  young  men  sin.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
I  was  missing  a  great  deal,  missing  the  delight  sin  is 
said  to  give  to  natures,  or  at  least  missing  the  invigo- 
rating necessity  you  have  just  mentioned,  the  necessity 
to  fight,  to  wage  war  against  impulses." 

"  I  understand." 

"And  one  night  I  expressed  this  feeling  to  Julian." 

'To  Addison?"  the  doctor  said,  an  expression  of 
keen  interest  sliding  into  his  face.  "I  should  much  like 
to  know  how  he  received  it." 


A   CONVERSATION   AT   THE   CLUB      43 

"  He  said,  of  course,  that  such  a  dissatisfaction  was 
rather  monstrous." 

"Was  that  all?" 

*'  No.  He  told  me  he  considered  temptation  rather  a 
curse  than  otherwise,  and  then  he  surprised  me  very 
much." 

"  He  told  you  a  secret  ?  " 

"Why,  yes." 

"  The  secret  of  your  great  influence  over  his  life?  '* 

"You  knew  of  this  secret,  then?" 

"He  didn't  tell  it  to  me.  Long  ago  I  divined  it. 
Addison  is  a  very  interesting  fellow  to  a  doctor,  and  the 
fact  of  his  strong  friendship  with  you  has  made  him  more 
interesting  even  than  he  would  otherwise  have  been.  His 
physique  is  tremendous.  He  has  a  quite  unusual  vitality, 
and  stronger  passions  by  far  than  most  Englishmen.  I 
confess  that  my  knowledge  of  human  nature  led  me  to 
foresee  a  very  troubled  and  too  vehement  future  for  him. 
My  anticipation  being  utterly  falsified  led  me  naturally 
to  look  round  for  the  reason  of  its  falsification.  I  very 
soon  found  that  reason  in  you." 

"I  had  never  suspected  it." 

"Your  lack  of  suspicion  was  not  the  least  reason  of 
the  influence  you  exercised." 

"Possibly.  He  told  me  of  the  strength  of  his  evil 
impulses,  of  how  he  hated  their  assaults,  and  of  how 
being  with  me  enabled  him  to  conquer  them.  Apparently 
the  contemplation  of  my  unnatural  nature  is  an  armour  to 
him." 

"It  is." 

"Well,  I  continued  to  bewail  my  condition,  which  he 
envied,  and  it  ended  in  our  sitting  down,  in  jest,  to  make 
an  experiment  to  try  to  exchange  our  souls." 

"  What  means  did  you  take?  " 

And  then  Valentine  told  Dr.  Levillier  the  exact  cir- 
cumstances of  the  three  sittings,  without  embellishment, 
without  omission  of  any  kind.  He  listened  with  keen 
attention,  and  without  attempting  interruption  or  intrud- 
ing comment.  When  Valentine  had  finished  he  made  no 
remark. 

"What  do  you  think  of  it,  doctor?  " 


44  FLAMES 

"Of  what  part  of  it?" 

**  Of  any  part.     Do  you  attach  any  importance  to  it?  " 

'*  I  do,  certainly." 

**  I  thought  you  would  laugh  at  the  whole  thing. " 

"Why  should  I?  Why  should  I  laugh  at  any  circum- 
stances which  strongly  affect  men  whom  I  know,  or, 
indeed,  any  men?  " 

"But  then,  tell  me,  do  you  believe  in  some  strange, 
unseen  agency?  Do  you  believe  that  Julian  absolutely 
held  the  hand  of  some  being  dwelling  in  another  sphere, 
some  being  attracted  to  us,  or,  say,  enabled  to  come  to 
us  by  such  an  action  as  our  sitting  at  a  table  in  the 
dark?" 

"No.     I  do  n't  believe  that. " 

"  You  attribute  the  whole  thing  to  bodily  causes?  " 

"I  am  inclined  to  attribute  it  to  the  action  and  re- 
action of  mind  and  body,  undoubtedly.  If  you  had  sat 
in  the  light,  for  instance,  I  don't  think  Addison  would 
have  felt  that  hand.  The  hand  is  indeed  the  least  of  the 
circumstances  you  have  related,  in  my  opinion.  The  in- 
cidents of  the  dog  and  of  the  curtain  are  far  more 
mysterious.  You  are  positive  the  door  was  securely 
shut?" 

"  Quite  positive." 

"Could  you,  after  having  drawn  the  curtain,  have 
allowed  your  hand  to  slip  slightly  back,  pulling  the 
curtain  with  it?  " 

"  I  do  n't  think  so.     I  feel  sure  not. " 

"  You  know  we  all  constantly  make  involuntary  mo- 
tions— motions  that  our  minds  are  quite  unaware  of." 

"  I  do  feel  sure,  nevertheless.  And  the  dog?  What 
do  you  say  to  that?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  say.  But  dogs  are  extraor- 
dinarily sensitive.  I  do  not  think  it  beyond  the  bounds 
of  possibility  that  the  tumult  of  your  nerves — for  there 
was  tumult ;  you  confess  it — communicated  itself  to  him. ' ' 

"  And  was  the  cause  of  his  conduct?  " 

"Yes.  In  the  course  of  my  career  I  have  been  con- 
sulted by  a  great  many  patients  whose  nervous  systems 
have  been  disastrously  upset  by  the  practices  you  de- 
scribe, by  so-called  spiritualism,   table-turning,   and  so 


A   CONVERSATION   AT   THE    CLUB      45 

forth.  One  man  I  knew,  trying  to  cultivate  himself  onto 
what  he  called  'a  higher  plane,'  cultivated  himself  into 
a  lunatic  asylum,  where  he  still  remains." 

"  Then  you  consider  spiritualism — ?  " 

''I  have  too  much  respect  for  the  soul,  too  much  be- 
lief in  its  great  destiny,  Cresswell,  to  juggle  with  it,  or  to 
play  tricks  with  it.  When  one  meets  a  genius  one  does 
not  want  to  have  a  game  at  puss-in-the-corner  with  him. 
One  is  rather  anxious  to  hear  him  talk  seriously  and  dis- 
play his  mind.  When  I  come  into  contact  with  a  soul,  I 
do  n't  want  to  try  to  detach  it  from  the  home  in  which  a 
divine  power  has  placed  it  for  a  time.  I  glory  in  many 
limitations  against  which  it  is  the  prevailing  fashion  to 
fight  uselessly.  The  soul  can  do  all  its  work  where  it  is 
— in  the  body.  The  influence  you  exercise  over  your 
friend  Addison  convinces  me  of  the  existence  of  spirits, 
things  which  will  eventually  be  freed  from  the  body, 
more  certainly  than  any  amount  of  material  manifesta- 
tions, sights,  sounds,  apparent  physical  sensations.  Why 
should  we  not  be  satisfied  with  remaining,  for  a  time,  as 
we  are?  I  consider  that  you  and  Addison  were  ill-advised 
in  making  this — no  doubt  absurd — experiment.  Suppos- 
ing it  to  be  absurd,  the  raison  d'etre  of  the  sittings  is 
gone  at  once.     Supposing  it  not  to  be — " 

"Yes.     What,  then?" 

"  Then  the  danger  is  great.  Imagine  yourself  with 
Addison's  soul  or  nature,  him  with  yours.  To  what 
might  not  you  be  led?  How  do  you  know  that  your 
nature  in  him  would  exert  any  control  over  his  nature  in 
you?  " 

*' Why  should  it  not?  " 

"  There  comes  in  the  power  of  the  body,  which  is 
very  great.  I  believe,  as  you  know,  absolutely  in  the 
existence  of  the  soul,  and  in  its  immortal  destiny;  but 
that  does  not  blind  me  to  the  extraordinary  influence, 
the  extraordinary  kingship,  which  a  mere  body,  a  mere 
husk  and  shell,  as  some  good  people  call  it — I  do  n't  feel 
with  them — can  obtain  not  only  over  another  body,  but, 
strangely,  over  the  soul  which  is  in  that  body.  Your  in- 
fluence over  Addison  has  been,  and  is,  immense.  Do  you 
imagine  that  it  is  simply  your  nature  which  governs  him? ' ' 


46  FLAMES 

"  I  suppose  so." 

*' Your  mere  appearance  may  have  an  immense  deal 
to  do  with  the  matter.  You  have  the  look,  the  expres- 
sion, of  one  who  has  not  sinned.  It  is  partly  that  which 
keeps  Addison  from  giving  the  reins  to  his  impulses.  I 
consider  that  if  it  were  possible  for  your  nature  to  change 
secretly  and  for  your  face  to  remain  unchanged,  if  you 
sinned  perpetually  and  retained  your  exact  appearance, 
and  if  Addison  did  not  know  you  sinned,  you  could  still 
be  his  guardian,  while,  really,  yourself  far  worse  in  every 
way  than  him." 

"But  surely  that  fights  against  your  theory  that  the 
existence  of  a  soul  is  proved  by  such  an  influence  as  I 
possess  over  Addison?  " 

*'  Not  at  all.  I  said  if  it  were  possible  for  the  body 
not  to  express  the  soul,  if — but  that 's  just  the  difficulty, 
it  is  not  possible.  The  body  manifests  the  soul.  Sup- 
posing it  were  not  so,  the  power  of  evil,  the  devil,  if  you 
choose  to  name  it  and  imply  a  personal  existence  for  it, 
might  have  hold  of  the  world  even  more  tightly  than 
now.  Just  conceive,  under  such  conditions,  how  you 
might  lure  Addison  to  destruction  if  you  desired  to  do 
so.  Looking  at  you,  and  seeing  the  same  face  in  which 
he  has  learned  to  see  what  he  thinks  entire  goodness,  he 
would  be  unable  to  believe  that  any  action  you  could 
suggest  and  take  part  in  could  be  evil.  You  could  wreck 
his  future  with  a  perfect  ease.  But,  as  things  are,  did 
your  nature  change  and  become  malignant,  your  face 
would  change  too,  and  you  might  quickly  cease  to  exer- 
cise a  strong  influence  over  Addison.  He  might  even, 
having  now  been  unconsciously  trained  into  a  curious 
integrity,  learn  to  hate  and  to  despise  you.  You  re- 
member our  conversation  to-night  about  that  symphony?" 

'♦Yes." 

'*  I  said  that  the  soul  which  could  reproduce  hell 
should  be  able  to  reproduce  heaven." 

"I  know." 

*'  Well,  my  boy — for  you  are  a  boy  to  me — the  reverse 
of  that  might  happen  also." 

**  Perhaps.     But  I  do  n't  quite  see." 


A   CONVERSATION   AT   THE    CLUB       47 

**  The  application — to  you?  " 

"To  me?" 

"  Yes,  to  you,  Cresswell.  You  have  been  given  a 
strangely  perfect  nature.  As  you  say,  you  seem  to  have 
nothing  to  do  with  the  matter.  You  have  even  been 
inclined  to  rebel  against  your  gift.  But,  take  my  advice. 
Cherish  it.  Do  n't  play  with  it,  as  you  have  been  play- 
ing. Remember,  if  you  lose  heaven,  the  space  once 
filled  by  heaven  will  not  be  left  empty." 

"Ah!  now  I  see.     You  think  that  I — " 

"Might  swing  from  a  great  height  to  an  equally 
great  depth.  That  has  been  my  experience — that  the 
man  who  is  once  extreme  is  always  extreme,  but  not 
always  in  the  same  way.  The  greatest  libertines  have 
made  the  greatest  ascetics.  But,  within  my  own  experi- 
ence, I  have  known  the  reverse  process  to  obtain.  And 
you,  if  you  changed,  might  carry  Addison  with  you." 

"  But  then,  doctor,  you  do  believe  in  these  manifesta- 
tions? " 

"Not  necessarily.  But  I  believe  that  the  minds  of 
men  are  often  very  carefully,  very  deftly,  poised,  and 
that  a  little  push  can  send  them  one  way  or  the  other. 
Have  you  ever  balanced  one  billiard-ball  on  the  top  of 
another? " 

"Yes." 

"Then  you  know  that  a  breath  will  upset  it  and  send 
it  rolling.  Be  careful.  Your  mind,  your  very  nature, 
may  be  poised  like  that  billiard-ball.  Addison's  may  be 
the  same.  Indeed,  I  feel  sure  Addison's  is.  That  curi- 
ous dread  of  you  which  overcame  him  at  your  last  sit- 
ting is  a  sign  of  it.  The  whole  thing  is  wrong — bad  for 
body  and  for  mind." 

"Perhaps.  Well,  we  have  definitely  agreed  to  give 
it  up." 

"That's  well.  Eleven  o'clock!  I  must  be  going. 
Are  you  doing  anything  to-morrow  night?  " 

"No." 

"I  have  got  a  box  for  this  new  play  at  the  Duke's 
Theatre.     Will  you  come?  " 

"With  pleasure." 


48  FLAMES 

"I  will  ask  Addison  also." 

They  put  on  their  overcoats,  and  walked  a  little  way 
along  Pall  Mall  before  they  parted.  Near  the  Athe- 
nseum  they  passed  a  tall,  thin  man,  who  was  coming  in 
the  opposite  direction.  He  turned  round  as  they  went 
by,  and  stood  directly  regarding  them  till  they  were  out 
of  sight. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  REGENT  STREET  EPISODE 

The  things  we  do  apparently  by  chance  often  have  a 
curious  applicability  to  the  things  we  have  thought. 
John  the  Baptist  was  sent  to  prepare  the  way  of  the 
Lord.  These  thoughts  are  the  John  the  Baptists  of  the 
mind,  and  prepare  the  way  for  facts  that  often  startlingly 
illustrate  them.  It  is  as  if  our  thoughts  were  gradually 
materialized  by  the  action  of  the  mind;  as  if,  by  the  act 
of  thinking,  we  projected  them. 

When  Doctor  Levillier  got  a  box  for  the  first  night  of 
the  new  play  at  the  Duke's  Theatre,  and  when  he  invited 
Valentine  and  Julian  to  make  up  his  party,  he  had  no 
idea  what  the  subject  of  the  piece  was,  no  notion  that  it 
would  have  anything  to  do  with  the  conversation  which 
took  place  between  him  and  Valentine  at  the  club.  But 
the  plot  applied  with  almost  amazing  fidelity  to  much 
that  he  had  said  upon  that  occasion.  The  play  was  a 
modern  allegory  of  the  struggle  between  good  and  evil, 
which  has  been  illustrated  in  so  many  different  ways 
since  the  birth  of  the  Faust  legend.  But  the  piece  had 
a  certain  curious  originality  which  sprang  from  the  dar- 
ing of  the  author.  Instead  of  showing  one  result  of  the 
struggle,  a  good  man  drawn  gradually  down,  or  a  bad 
man  drawn  gradually  up,  he  set  forth,  with  a  great  deal 
of  detail,  a  great  deal  of  vividness,  a  modern  wobbler,  a 
human  pendulum,  and  simply  noted  down,  as  it  were,  his 
slow  swinging  backwards  and  forwards.  His  hero,  an 
evil  liver,  a  modern  man  of  wrath  in  the  first  act, 
dominated  by  a  particular  vice,  was  drawn,  by  an  outside 
personal  influence,  from  the  mire  in  which  he  was  wal- 
lowing, to  purity,  to  real  elevation.  But  his  author, 
having  led  him  up  to  the  pinnacle,  had  no  intention  of 
leaving  him  there,  blessed  by  the  proclaimed  admiration 

49 


50  FLAMES 

of  the  gods  in  the  gallery.  In  the  succeeding  acts  he 
introduced  a  second  personal  influence,  exerted  this  time 
on  the  side  of  evil,  and  permitted  it  to  act  upon  his 
central  figure  successfully.  The  man  fell  again  into  the 
mire,  and  was  left  there  at  the  conclusion  of  the  piece, 
but  hugging  a  different  sin,  not  the  sin  he  had  been 
embracing  when  the  curtain  rose  upon  the  first  act. 
This  dramatic  scheme  took  away  the  breath  of  the  house 
for  a  moment,  but  only  for  a  moment.  Then  the  lungs 
once  more  did  their  accustomed  duty,  and  enabled  a 
large  number  of  excited  persons  to  hiss  with  a  wonderful 
penetration.  Their  well-meant  efforts  did  not  have  the 
effect  of  terrorizing  the  author.  On  the  contrary,  he 
quickly  responded  to  the  hostile  uproar,  and,  coming  for- 
w^ard  in  a  very  neat  Jaeger  suit,  a  flannel  shirt,  and  a  pair 
of  admirably  fitting  doeskin  gloves,  bowed  with  great 
gravity  and  perfect  self-possession.  The  hisses  there- 
upon suddenly  faded  into  piercing  entreaties  for  a  speech, 
in  which  a  gallery  lady  with  a  powerful  soprano  voice 
became  notorious  as  the  leader.  But  the  Jaeger  author 
was  not  to  be  prevailed  upon.  He  waved  the  doeskin 
gloves  in  token  of  adieu,  and  retreated  once  more  into 
the  excited  obscurity  of  the  wings,  where  his  manager 
was  trembling  like  an  aspen,  in  the  midst  of  a  perspiring 
company.  The  lights  were  turned  down.  The  orchestra 
burst  into  a  tuneful  jig,  and  the  lingering  audience  at 
length  began  to  disperse. 

Dr.  Levillier,  Julian,  and  Valentine  left  their  box  in 
silence.  It  seemed  that  this  odd  play,  which  dared  to 
be  natural,  had  impressed  them.  They  walked  into  the 
vestibule  without  a  word,  and,  avoiding  many  voluble 
friends  who  were  letting  off  the  steam  as  they  gathered 
their  coats  and  hats  from  a  weary  lady  in  a  white  cap, 
they  threaded  their  way  through  the  crowd  and  emerged 
into  the  street.  Just  as  they  reached  the  portico, 
Julian  suddenly  started  and  laid  his  hand  on  Valentine's 
arm. 

"What  is  it?  "  asked  Valentine,  looking  round. 

"Ah!  you  're  just  too  late.     He  's  gone!  " 

"He— who?" 

"Marr." 


THE  REGENT  STREET  EPISODE   51 

*'  Oh,"  Valentine  said,  showing  considerable  interest; 
**  I  wish  I  had  seen  him.     Where  was  he  sitting?  " 

"I  haven't  an  idea.  Didn't  know  he  was  in  the 
theatre." 

Doctor  Levillier  made  an  exception  to  his  rule  of 
being  in  bed  by  twelve  o'clock  that  night,  and  accepted 
Valentine's  invitation  to  sup  in  Victoria  Street.  He  had 
always  been  greatly  drawn  to  Valentine,  attracted  by 
the  latter's  exceptional  clarity  of  character,  and  he  was 
scarcely  less  interested  in  Julian.  Nor  did  the  consid- 
erable difference  between  his  age  and  the  ages  of  the 
two  youths  in  any  way  interfere  with  their  pleasant  inter- 
course. For  Levillier  had  a  heart  that  was  ageless.  The 
corroding  years  did  not  act  as  acid  upon  it.  All  his  sym- 
pathies were  as  keen,  all  his  power  of  enjoyment  was  as 
great,  as  when  he  had  been  a  delightfully  gay  and  de- 
lightfully pleasant  boy  at  school.  Youth  always  loved 
him,  and  age  always  respected  him.  He  possessed  the 
great  secret  of  a  beautiful  life.  He  was  absolutely  gen- 
uine, and  he  meant  nothing  but  good  to  all  with  whom 
he  was  brought  into  contact. 

The  three  friends  spoke  but  little  as  they  went  back 
to  the  flat,  but  when  they  had  sat  down  to  supper,  and 
Dr.  Levillier  had  expressed  his  complete  satisfaction 
with  the  champagne  that  Valentine's  butler  had  politely 
insinuated  into  his  glass,  the  silence  took  to  itself  wings 
and  lightly  departed.  They  talked  of  the  play,  and  it 
appeared  that  they  were  all  impressed  by  it,  but  in 
slightly  different  ways,  and  for  different  reasons.  Val- 
entine, who  was  intensely,  but  sometimes  almost  coldly, 
artistic,  appreciated  it,  he  said,  because  it  did  not  obvi- 
ously endeavour  to  work  out  a  problem  or  to  teach  a 
lesson.  It  simply,  with  a  great  deal  of  literary  finish 
and  dramatic  force,  stated  a  curiously  human  character, 
showed  the  nature  of  a  man  at  work,  and  left  him,  after 
some  scenes  of  his  life,  still  at  work  upon  his  own  salva- 
tion or  destruction,  not  telling  the  audience  what  his  end 
would  be,  scarcely  even  trying  to  imply  his  innate  ten- 
dency one  way  or  the  other.  This  satisfied  Valentine. 
This  had  made  him  feel  as  if  he  had  seen  a  block  cut 
out  of  life. 


52  FLAMES 

**  I  do  not  want  to  learn  what  becomes  of  that  man," 
he  said.  "I  have  known  him,  good  and  bad.  That  is 
enough.  That  satisfies  me  more  than  the  sight  of  a 
thousand  bombastic  heroes,  a  thousand  equally  bom- 
bastic villains.  Life  is  neither  ebony  nor  ivory.  That 
man  is  something  to  my  mind  forever,  as  Ibsen's  '  Mas- 
ter Builder '  is  something.  I  can  never  forget  the  one 
or  the  other." 

"Your  life  is  ivory,  Val,"  Julian  said. 

He  had  liked  the  play  because  the  violent  struggle 
between  good  and  evil  woke  up  many  responsive  memo- 
ries in  his  mind.  The  hero  of  the  play  had  been  shown 
feeling  precisely  as  Julian  had  often  felt.  That  was 
enough.  He  did  not  very  much  care  for  the  brilliant  arti- 
fice, which  Valentine  had  remarked  with  so  much  pleasure. 
He  did  not  specially  note  the  peculiar  effect  of  nature 
produced  by  the  simplicity  and  thoughtful  directness  of 
the  dialogue.  He  only  knew  that  he  had  seen  somebody 
whose  nature  was  akin  to  his  own  nature,  although  placed 
in  different,  perhaps  more  dramatic,  circumstances. 

Dr.  Levillier  combined,  to  some  appreciable  extent, 
the  different  joys  of  his  two  companions,  and  obtained 
another  that  was  quite  his  own.  He  had  seen  two 
horses  running  in  double  harness  that  night,  the  body 
and  mind  of  the  hero,  and  had  taken  delight  in  observ- 
ing what  had  practically  escaped  the  definite  notice  of 
his  companions,  the  ingenuity  and  subtlety  with  which 
the  author,  without  being  obtrusive  or  insistent,  had 
displayed  their  liaison  ;  the  effect  of  each  upon  the  other, 
their  answering  excursions  and  alarums,  their  attempts 
at  separate  amours^  amours  that  always  had  an  inev- 
itable effect  upon  the  one  which  the  other  had,  for  the 
moment,  endeavoured  to  exclude  from  its  life.  The  doc- 
tor in  him  and  the  priest  in  him  had  both  enjoyed  a 
glorious  evening  of  bracing  activity.  As  they  discussed 
the  piece,  and  each  advanced  his  reason  of  pleasure,  the 
doctor  expanded  into  a  sort  of  saintly  geniality,  which 
was  peculiarly  attractive  even  to  sinners.  And  when 
supper  was  over,  and  they  strolled  into  the  drawing- 
room  to  smoke  and  to  make  music,  he  sank  into  a  chair, 
stretched  out  his  polished  boots  with  a  sigh,  and  said: 


THE  REGENT  STREET  EPISODE   53 

"And  people  say  there  is  so  little  joy  in  life!  " 

Julian  laughed  at  the  satisfied  whimsicality  of  his  ex- 
clamation and  of  the  expression  which  shadowed  it. 

"Light  up,  doctor,"  he  cried.  "You  are  a  boon  to 
this  modern  world.  For  you  see  all  the  sorrows  of  life, 
I  suppose,  and  yet  you  always  manage  to  convey  the 
impression  that  the  joys  win  the  battle  after  all." 

Valentine  had  gone  over  to  the  piano  and  was  dreamily 
opening  it.  He  did  not  seem  to  hear  what  they  were 
saying.  The  doctor  obeyed  the  injunction  to  light  up. 
He  was  one  of  the  hardest  and  most  assiduous  toilers  in 
all  London,  and  he  appreciated  a  good  cigar  and  a  com- 
fortable arm-chair  more  than  some  men  could  appreciate 
Paradise,  or  some  women  appreciate  love. 

"And  I  believe  that  joy  will  wi'n  the  battle  in  the  end," 
he  said,  with  a  puff  that  proved  successful, 

"Why?" 

"  I  see  evidences  of  it,  or  think  I  do.  The  colour 
will  fade  out  of  bad  acts,  Addison,  but  the  colour  of  a 
good  act  is  eternal.  A  noble  deed  will  never  emulate  a 
Sir  Joshua  Reynolds — never.     Play  to  us,  Cresswell." 

"Yes,  but  I  wish  you  to  talk.  I  want  to  improvise 
to-night.  The  murmur  of  your  conversation  will  help 
me." 

Julian  sat  down  by  the  doctor.  He,  too,  looked  very 
happy.  It  was  a  pleasant  hour.  Sympathy  was  in  that 
pretty  room,  complete  human  sympathy,  and  a  sympathy 
that  sprang  from  their  vitality,  avoiding  the  dusky  dumb- 
ness of  the  phlegmatic.  Valentine  sat  down  at  the  piano 
and  began  gently  to  play.  The  smoke  from  the  cigars 
curled  away  towards  the  watching  pictures;  the  room 
was  full  of  soft  music. 

"Yes,  Addison,"  Doctor  Levillier  continued,  in  alow 
voice,  "  I  am  perpetually  sitting  with  sorrow,  communing 
with  disease.  That  consulting-room  of  mine  is  as  a  pool 
of  Bethesda,  only  not  all  who  come  to  it,  alas!  can  be 
healed.  I  sit  day  by  day  in  my  confessional  —  I  like  to 
call  it  that;  perhaps  I  was  meant  to  be  a  priest- — and  I 
read  the  stories  of  the  lives  of  men  and  of  women,  most 
of  them  necessarily,  from  the  circumstances  which  bring 
them  to  me,  sad.     And  yet  I  have  a  belief  in  joy  and  its 


54  FLAMES 

triumph  which  nothing  can  ever  shake,  a  belief  in  the 
final  glory  of  good  which  nothing  can  ever  conquer." 

"That's  fine,  doctor.  But  do  you  know  why  you 
have  it?" 

*  *  I  dare  say  that  question  is  difficult  to  answer.  I  often 
seek  for  my  reasons,  Addison,  and  I  find  many,  though 
I  can  hardly  say  which  is  the  best,  or  whether  any  quite 
explains  the  faith  that  is  always  in  me.  Apropos  of  this 
evening,  by  the  bye,  I  long  ago  found  one  of  my  reasons 
in  the  theatre,  the  theatre  which  some  really  good  men 
hate  and  condemn." 

"What  was  that?" 

"Oh,  a  very  simple  one.  I  believe  that  men  in  the 
mass  express  eternal  truths  more  readily,  more  certainly, 
than  men  as  individuals.  Put  a  lot  of  bad  men,  or  —  we 
won't  call  them  bad,  why  should  we?  —  loose,  careless, 
thoughtless  men,  together  in  the  pit  of  a  theatre.  Many 
of  them,  perhaps,  drink,  and  are  rendered  cruel  by 
drink.  Many  of  them  care  nothing  for  morality,  and 
have  wounded,  in  the  worst  way,  the  souls  of  women. 
Many  of  them  show  incessant  hardness  in  most  of  the 
relations  of  life.  What,  then,  is  it,  that  makes  all  these 
individuals  respond  so  directly,  so  certainly,  to  every 
touch  of  goodness,  and  gentleness,  and  unselfishness,  and 
purity,  and  faith,  that  is  put  before  them  upon  the  stage? 
I  think  it  must  be  that  eternal  truth  —  the  rocks  of  good 
that  lie  forever  beneath  the  wild  seas  of  evil.  Those 
men  don't  know  themselves;  don't  know  that  it  is  all 
useless  for  them  to  try  to  hide  the  nobility  which  has 
been  put  into  them,  to  thrust  it  down,  and,  metaphor- 
ically, to  dance  on  it.  They  can't  get  rid  of  it,  do  what 
they  will.  I  like  to  think  of  goodness  as  the  shadow  of 
evil  through  life,  the  shadow  that,  at  death,  or  perhaps 
long  after  death,  becomes  the  substance. 

"  You  think  we  cannot  kill  the  good  that  is  in  us?  " 

"  Not  quite.  But  I  think  we  can  go  near  to  killling  it, 
so  near  that  it  will  take  longer  to  recover  and  to  be  itself 
again,  longer  far  than  the  most  relapsing  typhoid  pa- 
tient." 

"And  have  you  other  reasons  for  your  belief?  " 

"Perhaps.     But  some  of  them  are  difficult  to  define, 


THE  REGENT  STREET  EPISODE   55 

and  would  carry  no  conviction  to  any  one  but  myself. 
There  is  one  in  this  very  room  with  us." 

Julian  glanced  up,  surprised. 

'*  What  is  that,  doctor?  "  he  said. 

"You  ought  to  know  better  than  I,"  Levillier  an- 
swered. 

He  was  looking  at  Valentine,  who,  apparently  quite 
unconscious  of  their  presence,  was  still  playing  rather 
softly.     Julian  followed  his  eyes. 

The  light  in  the  room  was  dim,  a  carefully  manufac- 
tured twilight.  It  is  strange  how  many  things,  and  how 
slight,  stir,  control,  influence  in  one  direction  or  another, 
the  emotions.  Light  and  the  absence  of  light  can  divert 
a  heart  as  easily  as  the  pressing  of  a  button  can  give  a 
warship  to  the  sea.  Twilight  and  music  can  change  a 
beast  into  a  man,  a  man  into  an  angel,  for  the  moment. 
Long  after  that  evening  was  dead,  both  Julian  and 
Doctor  Levillier  anxiously,  and  in  their  different  ways 
analytically,  considered  it.  They  submitted  it  to  a  secret 
process  of  probing,  such  as  many  men  enforce  upon 
what  they  imagine  to  be  great  causes  in  their  lives.  That 
hour  became  an  hour  of  wonder,  an  hour  of  amazement, 
viewed  in  the  illumination  of  subsequent  events.  They 
found  in  it  a  curious  climax  of  misunderstanding,  a  cul- 
mination of  all  deceptive  things. 

And  yet,  in  that  hour  they  only  watched  a  young  man 
of  London,  a  modern  intellectual  youth,  playing  in  a 
Victoria  Street  drawing-room  upon  a  Steinway  grand 
piano. 

They  wei:e  sitting  sideways  to  Valentine,  and  a  little 
behind  him.  Therefore  he  could  not  easily  see  them 
unless  he  slightly  turned  his  head.  But  they  could 
observe  him,  and,  obeying  Doctor  Levillier's  mute  in- 
junction, Julian  now  did  so. 

Valentine  was  gazing  straight  before  him  over  the  top, 
of  the  piano,  and  his  eyes  seemed  to  be  fixed  upon  the 
dim  figure  of  Christ  in  the  picture  of  "  The  Merciful 
Knight."  Was  he  not  playing  to  the  picture,  playing 
to  that  figure  in  it?  And  did  not  his  musical  imagina- 
tion seek  to  reproduce  in  sound  the  vision  of  the  life  of 
that   mailed   knight   who  never   lived   and  died?     The 


56  FLAMES 

purity  of  his  expression,  always  consummate,  was  to. 
night  more  peculiar,  more  unearthly,  than  before  in  any 
place,  at  any  moment.  And,  as  mere  line  can  convey  to 
the  senses  of  man  a  conception  of  a  great  virtue  or  of  a 
great  vice,  the  actual  shape  of  his  features,  thus  seen  in 
profile,  was  the  embodiment  of  an  exquisitely  ascetic 
purity,  as  much  an  embodiment  as  is  a  drop  of  water 
pierced  by  a  sunbeam.  This  struck  both  Doctor  Levil- 
lier  and  Julian,  and  the  doctor  was  amazed  anew  at  the 
silent  decree  that  the  invisible  shall  be  made  visible  in 
forms  comprehensible  to  the  commonest  minds.  Sin 
would  surely  flee  from  a  temple  sculptured  in  such  a 
shape  as  the  body  of  Valentine,  as  a  vampire  would  flee 
from  the  bloodless  courts  of  the  heaven  of  the  Revela- 
tion. Lust  cannot  lie  at  ease  on  a  crystal  couch,  or  rest 
its  dark  head  upon  a  pillow  of  pale  ivory.  And  the  mes- 
sage of  this  strange,  unearthly  youth  now  given  in 
music,  and  to  the  air  and  the  dust — for  Valentine  had 
•lost  knowledge  of  his  friends — was  crystalline  too.  In 
his  improvisation  he  journeyed  through  many  themes  of 
varying  characters.  He  hymned  the  knight's  tempta- 
tion no  less  than  his  triumph.  But  purity  was  in  the 
hymn  even  at  the  hour  of  temptation,  and  sang  like  a 
bird  in  every  scene  of  the  life, — a  purity  classical,  de- 
tached, so  refined  as  to  be  almost  physically  cold. 

"I  understand  you,"  Julian  whispered  to  the  little 
doctor.  "Yes,  you  are  right.  He  is  a  great  reason 
why  what  you  think  may  be  true.  And  yet  " — here 
Julian  lowered  his  voice  to  a  breath,  lest  he  might  dis- 
turb the  player — "  he  is  not  religious,  as — as — well,  as 
you  are.      Forgive  the  allusion — . " 

"Are  the  angels  religious?"  said  Doctor  Levillier. 
"  Why  should  you  refrain,  my  dear  boy?  But  you  are 
right.  There  is  a  curious  unconsciousness  about  Cress- 
well — about  Valentine — which  seems  to  exclude  even 
definite  religious  belief  as  something  in  a  way  self- 
conscious,  and  so  impossible  to  him.  There  is  an 
extraordinary  strain  of  the  child  in  Cresswell,  such  as 
I  conceive  to  be  in  unearthly  beings,  who  have  never 
had  the  power  to  sin.  And  the  best-behaved,  sweetest 
child   in   the  world   might   catch  flies   or  go   to   sleep 


THE  REGENT  STREET  EPISODE   57 

during  the  Litany  or  a  sermon.  This  very  absence  of 
controversial  or  dogmatic  religion  gives  Valentine  much 
of  his  power,  seems  positively  to  lift  him  higher  than 
religionists  of  any  creed." 

"  You  think — you  think  that  perhaps  it  is  something 
in  him  of  which  he  is  unconscious  which  does  so  much 
forme?" 

"  Perhaps  it  is." 

Valentine  now  glided  into  an  accompaniment,  and 
began  to  sing.  And  the  doctor  and  Julian  ceased  to 
talk.  Valentine  certainly  did  not  sing  with  such  pecu- 
liar skill  as  he  showed  in  playing,  but  he  had  a  charm- 
ing voice  which  he  used  with  great  ease,  and  he  never 
sang  a  single  note,  or  phrased  a  passage,  without  com- 
plete intelligence  and  understanding  of  his  composer. 
Only  he  lacked  power.  This  scarcely  interfered  with 
the  pleasure  he  could  give  in  a  drawing-room,  and  to- 
night both  Levillier  and  Julian  were  rather  in  a  mood 
for  supreme  delicacy  than  for  great  passion.  They 
listened  with  silent  pleasure  for  a  time.  Then  Levillier 
said: 

"  Do  you  remark  how  wonderfully  the  timbre  of 
Cresswell's  voice  expresses  the  timbre  of  his  mind?  The 
parallel  is  exact." 

Julian  nodded. 

' '  That  is  his  soul  written  in  sound, ' '  the  doctor  added. 

It  was  at  this  point  that  Valentine  ceased  and  got  up 
from  the  piano. 

"I  must  smoke  too,"  he  said.  "No,  not  a  cigar, 
I  '11  have  a  cigarette  to-night." 

"You  are  fond  of  that  picture,  Cresswell? "  said 
Doctor  Levillier  as  Valentine  sat  down. 

"'The  Merciful  Knight'?  Yes,  I  love  it.  Have 
you  told  Julian  your  opinion  of  our  sittings,  doctor?  " 

"No.     He  did  n't  ask  me  for  it. " 

"I  should  be  glad  to  have  it,  all  the  same,"  Julian 
said. 

"Well,  my  opinion  is  entirely  adverse  to  your  pro- 
ceedings,"  Levillier  said,  with  his  usual  frankness. 

"You  are,  in  fact,  at  the  opposite  pole  from  Marr," 
Julian  answered. 


58  FLAMES 

**  Marr!     Who  is  Marr?     I  never  heard  of  him." 

**  Nor  I,  until  the  other  evening,"  Julian  said.  **  But 
now  I  see  him  every  day.  He  was  at  the  theatre  to- 
night.    I  saw  him  as  we  came  out." 

"What  is  he,  a  spiritualist?     A  professional?" 

"Oh  dear,  no!  He  calls  himself  an  occultist.  He 
goes  out  in  society  a  great  deal,  apparently.  I  met  him 
at  dinner  first.  Since  then  he  has  taken  the  keenest 
interest  in  my  sittings  with  Valentine." 

"Indeed!     You  know  him,  Cresswell?  " 

Valentine  shook  his  head,  and  Julian  laughed. 

"The  fun  of  it  is  that  Marr  doesn't  wish  to  know 
Valentine,"  he  said. 

"Why?  "  the  doctor  asked. 

Julian  told  him  the  words  Marr  had  used  in  reference 
to  Valentine,  and  gave  a  fairly  minute  description  of 
Marr's  attitude  towards  their  proceedings.  Levillier 
listened  with  great  attention. 

"Then  this  man  urges  you  to  go  on  with  your  sit- 
tings? "  he  said  when  Julian  had  finished. 

"  Scarcely  that.  But  he  certainly  seems  anxious  that 
we  should." 

"You  have  both  resolved  to  give  them  up,  haven't 
you?" 

"Certainly,  doctor,"  Valentine  replied, 

"Does  Marr  know  that?"  Levillier  asked  of  Julian, 

"  No,  I  have  n't  seen  him  to  speak  to  since  our  final 
sitting," 

The  little  doctor  sat  in  apparent  meditation  for  two 
or  three  minutes.     Then  he  remarked,  with  abruptness: 

"Addison,  will  you  think  me  an  impertinent  elderly 
person  if  I  give  you  a  piece  of  advice?  " 

"You  —  doctor!     Of  course  not.     What  is  it?  " 

"Well,  you  young  fellows  know  me,  know  that  I  am 
not  a  mere  sentimentalist  or  believer  in  every  humbug 
that  is  the  fashion  of  the  moment.  But  one  thing  I  do 
firmly  believe,  that  certain  people  are  born  with  a  power 
to  command,  or  direct  others,  which  amounts  to  force. 
The  world  does  n't  completely  recognize  this.  The  law 
doesn't  recognize,  perhaps  ought  not  to  recognize  it. 
Some  call  it  hypnotism.     I  call  it  suggestion." 


THE  REGENT  STREET  EPISODE   59 

He  paused,  as  if  he  had  finished. 

"But  your  advice,  doctor?"  Julian  said,  wondering. 

"  Oh,  h'm!    I  do  n't  mean  to  give  it  to  you,  after  all. " 

"Why?" 

Doctor  Levillier  became  enigmatic. 

"Because  I  have  just  remembered  that  to  warn  is 
often  to  supply  a  cause  of  stumbling,"  he  said. 

Dr.  Levillier  and  Julian  drove  together  as  far  as  the 
latter's  chambers  that  evening,  and,  after  bidding  Julian 
good-night,  the  doctor  dismissed  the  cab  and  set  out  to 
walk  to  Harley  Street.  He  proceeded  at  a  leisurely  pace 
along  Piccadilly,  threading  his  way  abstractedly  among 
the  wandering  wisps  of  painted  humanity  that  dye  the 
London  night  with  rouge.  Occasionally  a  passing  man 
in  evening  dress  would  bid  him  good-night,  for  he  was 
universally  known  in  the  town.  But  he  did  not  reply. 
With  his  firm  round  chin  pressed  down  upon  his  fur  coat, 
and  his  eyelids  lowered,  he  moved  thoughtfully.  The 
problem  of  the  relations  existing  between  youth  and  life 
eternally  fascinated  him.  He  pondered  over  them  now. 
What  a  strange,  complicated  liaison  it  was,  sometimes  so 
happy,  sometimes  so  disastrous,  always,  to  him,  pathetic. 
Youth  sets  up  house  with  life  as  a  lover  sets  up  house 
with  his  mistress,  takes  an  attic  near  the  stars,  or  builds 
a  mansion  that  amazes  the  street-urchins.  And  they 
dwell  together.  And  youth  strives  in  every  way  to  know 
his  mistress.  He  tests  her,  tries  her,  kisses  and  cuffs 
her,  gives  her  presents,  weeps  at  her  knees.  And  at  first 
she  is  magical,  and  a  wonder,  and  a  dream,  and  eternity. 
And  then,  perhaps,  she  is  a  faded  creature,  and  terrible 
as  a  lost  girl  whom  one  has  known  in  innocence.  She  is 
grim  and  arid.  She  fills  youth  with  a  great  horror  and 
with  a  great  fear.  He  dare  not  kiss  her  any  more.  And 
then,  perhaps,  at  last  he  prays,  "Deliver  me  from  this 
bondage!"  And  he  thinks  that  he  knows  his  mistress. 
But,  happy  or  sad,  does  he  ever  quite  know  her?  Is 
she  not  always  a  mystery,  this  life,  a  sphinx  who  jeal- 
ously guards  a  great  secret? 

His  evening  with  the  two  boys,  for  so  the  doctor  called 
them  in  his  thoughts,  had  set  him  musing  thus  definitely. 
Was  there  not  a  wonder  and  a  secret  in  their  dual  life  of 


6o  FLAMES 

friendship?  For  is  not  the  potent  influence  of  one  soul 
over  another  one  of  the  marvels  of  time?  The  doctor 
loved  Valentine  as  a  human  saint  loves  another  saint. 
But  he  loved  Julian  as  a  saint  loves  a  sinner.  Not  that 
he  named  Julian  sinner,  but  it  was  impossible  to  be  with 
him,  observantly,  sensitively,  and  not  to  feel  the  thrill 
of  his  warm,  passionate  humanity,  which  cried  aloud  for 
governance,  for  protection.  Julian  could  be  great,  with 
the  greatness  only  attained  by  purged  humanity,  supe- 
rior surely  to  the  peaceful  purity  of  angels.  But  he  could 
be  a  castaway,  oh!  as  much  a  castaway  as  the  fainting 
shipwrecked  man  whom  the  hoarse  surf  rolls  to  the  sad 
island  of  a  desert  sea. 

Without  Valentine  what  might  he  not  have  been? 
And  the  little  doctor  let  his  imagination  run  loose  until  his 
light  eyes  were  dim  with  absurd  tears.  He  winked  them 
away  as  he  turned  into  Regent  Street.  The  hour  was 
nearly  two,  and  the  great  curved  thoroughfare  was  rather 
deserted.  Those  few  persons  who  were  about  had  a 
curious  aspect  of  wolves.  Their  eyes  were  watchful ; 
their  gait  denoted  a  ghastly  readiness  for  pause,  for  col- 
loquy. Poor  creatures!  What  was  their  liaison  with  life? 
A  thing  like  a  cry  for  help  in  the  dark.  The  doctor 
longed  to  be  a  miracle-worker,  to  lift  up  his  hands,  just 
there  where  he  was  by  the  New  Gallery,  and  to  say, 
**Be  ye  healed!  "  He  had  a  true  love  for  every  human 
thing.  And  that  love  sometimes  seared  his  heart,  de- 
spite his  fervent  faith  and  hope. 

But  now,  as  he  pursued  his  way,  a  physical  sensation 
intruded  itself  upon  his  mind,  and  gradually  excluded  all 
his  reflections.  A  sense  of  bodily  uneasiness  came  upon 
him,  of  a  curious  irritation  and  contempt,  mingled  with 
fear.  He  at  first  ascribed  it  to  the  coffee  he  had  im- 
prudently drunk  at  Valentine's  flat,  and  to  the  strength 
of  the  two  cigars  he  had  smoked,  or  to  some  ordinary, 
trifling  cause  of  diet.  But  by  the  time  he  crossed  Ox- 
ford Street,  and  was  in  the  desert  of  Vere  Street,  he  felt 
that  there  was  a  reason  for  his  distress,  outside  of  him. 

*'Iam  being  followed,"  he  said  to  himself.  "lam 
being  followed,  and  by  some  utterly  abominable  person," 

He  went   by  the  Chapel,  and   struck  across  to  the 


THE    REGENT   STREET   EPISODE       61 

right,  not  looking  behind  him,  but  analyzing  his  feelings. 
Being  strongly  intuitive,  he  had  no  need  to  turn  his  head. 
He  knew  now  for  certain  the  cause  of  his  uneasiness. 
Some  dreadful  human  being  was  very  near  to  him,  full 
of  hateful  thoughts,  sinister  recollections,  possibly  evil 
intentions.  Something,  the  very  vibrations  of  the  night 
air,  it  might  be,  carried,  as  a  telegraph  wire  conveys  a 
message,  the  soul-aroma  of  this  human  being  to  the 
doctor.  As  he  walked  on,  not  hurrying,  he  mutely 
diagnosed  the  heart  of  this  unseen  being.  It  seemed 
full  of  deadly  disease.  Never  had  he  suspected  man  or 
woman  of  such  wickedness  as  he  divined  here;  never  had 
he  felt  from  any  of  his  kind  such  a  sick  repulsion  as  from 
this  unseen  monster  who  was  journeying  steadily  in  his 
steps.  Doctor  Levillier  was  puzzled  at  the  depth  of  the 
horror  which  beleaguered  him.  He  remembered  once 
driving  a  staid,  well-behaved  horse  in  a  country  lane. 
The  animal  ambled  forward  at  a  gentle  pace,  flicking  its 
ears  lazily  to  circumvent  the  flies,  apparently  at  ease 
with  its  driver  and  with  the  world.  But  suddenly  it 

raised  its  head,  drew  the  air  into  its  distended  nostrils, 
stopped,  quivered  in  every  limb,  and  then,  with  a  strange 
cry,  bolted  like  a  mad  thing.  Far  away  a  travelling 
menagerie  was  encamping.  It  had  scented  the  wild 
animals. 

Doctor  Levillier  felt  like  that  horse.  A  longing  to 
bolt  for  his  life  came  upon  him.  He  had  an  impulse  to 
cry  out,  to  rjun  forward,  to  escape  out  of  the  atmos- 
phere created  by  this  evil  nature,  this  deadly  life.  He 
could  have  crept  like  a  coward  into  the  shadow  of  one  of 
the  areas  of  Henrietta  Street,  and  sheltered  there  till  the 
thing  went  past.  And,  just  because  he  had  this  almost 
overmastering  desire  to  flee,  he  stood  still,  paused 
abruptly,  and,  without  turning  his  head,  listened.  At  a 
distance,  and  he  judged,  round  the  corner  of  the  street 
he  heard  the  sound  of  a  quickening  footstep  advancing 
in  his  direction.  He  waited,  under  the  obligation  of 
exerting  all  his  powers  of  self-control;  for  his  limbs 
trembled  to  movement,  his  heart  beat  to  the  march,  and 
every  separate  vein,  every  separate  hair  of  his  body, 
seemed  crying  out  piercingly  to  begone.     The  footstep 


62  FLAMES 

approached.     Doctor    Levillier    heard    it    turning    the 
corner. 

"Now,"  thought  he,  "this  person  will  see  me  wait- 
ing here.  Will  he  come  on?  Will  he  pass  me?  And  if 
he  does,  shall  I  be  able  to  await,  to  endure  the  incident?  " 

And  he  listened,  as  a  scout  might  listen  in  the  night 
for  sounds  of  the  hidden  enemy.  Upon  turning  the  cor- 
ner, the  footsteps  advanced  a  pace  or  two,  faltered, 
slackened,  stopped.  For  an  instant  there  was  silence. 
The  doctor  knew  that  the  man  had  been  struck  by  his 
attentive  figure,  and  was  pausing  to  regard  it,  to  con- 
sider it.  What  would  be  the  result  of  the  inspection? 
In  a  moment  the  doctor  knew.  The  footsteps  sounded 
again,  this  time  in  retreat. 

On  this  the  impulse  of  the  doctor  to  flee  changed, 
giving  way  to  a  strict  desire  and  determination.  He 
was  resolved  to  interview  this  night-wanderer,  to  see  his 
face.  A  greedy  anxiety  for  view,  for  question,  of  this 
person  came  upon  him.  He,  too,  wheeled  round,  and 
followed  hastily  in  pursuit.  The  man  had  already 
escaped  from  his  sight  into  Vere  Street,  and  the  doctor 
broke  into  a  soft  run  until  he  reached  the  corner,  skirt- 
ing which,  the  man  was  immediately  in  his  view,  but  at 
a  considerable  distance  from  him.  As  the  doctor  sprang 
upon  the  pavement  the  man  turned  round,  and,  evi- 
dently observing  that  he  was  pursued,  quickened  his 
steps  impulsively.  The  doctor  was  now  absolutely 
determined  to  address  him,  and  began  openly  to  run. 
And  he  was  not  far  from  coming  up  with  the  fellow 
when  he  suddenly  whistled  a  passing  hansom,  bounded 
in,  and  thrust  up  the  trapdoor  in  the  roof.  The  direc- 
tion given  was  sufficiently  obvious,  for  the  cabby  glanced 
round  at  the  doctor,  lifted  his  whip,  brought  it  down 
with  a  sweep  over  the  horse's  loins,  and  the  cab  dis- 
appeared down  Oxford  Street  at  a  rocking  gallop. 

The  doctor  paused.  He  was  breathing  hard,  and  the 
perspiration  stood  upon  his  face.  His  disappointment 
was  absurdly  keen,  and  for  an  instant  he  had  even  some 
idea  of  hailing  another  cab,  and  of  following  in  pursuit. 
But,  upon  reflection,  he  deemed  it  more  reasonable  to 
return  upon  his  steps,  and  to  seek  his   bed  in  Harley 


THE   REGENT   STREET   EPISODE       63 

Street.  This  accordingly  he  did,  wondering  what  had 
moved  him  so  strangely,  and  wondering,  also,  not  a 
little,  at  the  abrupt  flight  of  the  unknown  person.  In 
the  brief  and  distant  view  of  him,  which  was  all  that  the 
doctor  had  obtained,  he  judged  him  to  be  tall,  spare, 
and  pale  of  countenance,  with  the  figure  of  a  gentleman. 
The  aspect  of  his  face  had  not  been  revealed  before  the 
shelter  of  the  cab  concealed  him. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

PAUSE 

It  chanced  that  for  three  or  four  days  after  the  night 
of  the  theatre  expedition  Valentine  and  Julian  did  not 
meet.  They  were  rarely  apart  for  so  long  a  period,  and 
each  was  moved  to  wonder  at  this  unwonted  abstinence 
of  their  friendship.  What  was  the  cause  of  it?  Each 
found  it  in  a  curious  hesitation  that  enveloped  him,  and 
impelled  him  to  avoidance  of  the  other,  Valentine  went 
about  as  usual.  He  looked  in  at  White's,  dined  out, 
rode  in  the  park,  visited  two  theatres,  lived  the  habitual 
London  life  which  contents  so  many  and  disgusts  not  a 
few.  But  he  did  not  ask  Julian  to  share  any  of  these 
well-worn  doings,  and  at  first  he  did  not  acknowledge  to 
himself  why  he  did  not  do  so.  He  sought,  more  defi- 
nitely than  ever  before,  to  gain  amusement  from  amuse- 
ments, and  this  definite  intention,  of  course,  frustrated 
his  purpose.  His  power  of  pleasure  was,  in  fact,  clogged 
by  an  abiding  sense  of  dissatisfaction  and  depression. 
And  it  was  really  his  eventual  knowledge  of  this  depres 
sion's  cause  that  led  him  to  bar  Julian  out  from  these 
few  days  of  his  life.  All  that  he  did  bored  him,  and  the 
more  decidedly  because  he  came  to  know  that  there  was 
something  which  did  not  bore,  which  even  excited  him, 
something  which  he  had  resolved  to  give  up.  He  was, 
in  fact,  strangely  pursued  by  an  unreasonable  desire  to 
fly  in  the  face  of  Doctor  Levillier's  advice,  and  of  his 
own  secondary  antagonistic  desire,  and  to  sit  again  with 
Julian.  Everything  in  which  he  sought  to  find  distrac- 
tion, lacked  savour.  As  he  sat  watching  a  ballet  that 
glittered  with  electricity,  and  was  one  twinkle  of  coloured 
movement,  he  found  himself  longing  for  the  silence,  the 
gloom,  the  live  expectation  of  the  tentroom,  night,  and 
Julian.     At  White's  the  conversation  of  the  men  struck 

64 


PAUSE  65 

him  as  even  more  scrappy,  more  desultorily  scandalous, 
than  usual.  His  morning  ride  was  an  active  ennui,  an 
ennui  revolving,  like  a  horse  in  a  circus,  round  and  round 
the  weariness  of  the  park. 

Yet  he  had  made  up  his  mind  quite  fully  that  it  would 
be  better  not  to  sit  any  more.  It  was  not  merely  Doctor 
Levillier's  urgency  that  had  impressed  him  thus.  A 
personal  conviction  had  gradually  forced  itself  upon  him 
that  if  anything  resulted  from  such  apparently  imbecile 
proceedings  it  would  certainly  not  be  of  an  agreeable 
nature.  But,  too,  this  very  sense  that  a  secret  danger 
might  be  lurking  against  him  and  Julian,  if  only  they 
would  consent  together  to  give  it  power  by  the  united 
action  of  sitting,  spurred  him  on  to  restless  desire.  It 
is  not  only  the  soldier  who  has  a  bizarre  love  of  peril. 
Many  of  those  who  sit  at  home  in  apparent  calmness  of 
safety  seek  perils  with  a  maniacal  persistence,  perils  to 
the  intricate  scheme  of  bodily  health,  perils  to  the  mind. 
More  human  mules  than  the  men  of  the  banner  and  the 
sword  delight  in  journeying  at  the  extreme  edge  of  the 
precipice.  And  Valentine  now  had  to  the  full  this  secret 
hankering  after  danger.  As  he  knew  it,  he  despised 
himself  for  it,  for  this  attitude  of  the  schoolboy  in  which 
he  held  himself.  Until  now  he  had  believed  that  he  was 
free  from  such  a  preposterous  and  morbid  bondage,  free 
on  account  of  his  constitutional  indifference  towards  vice, 
his  innate  love  of  the  brooding  calms  of  refinement  and 
of  the  upper  snowfields  of  the  intellect.  The  discovery 
of  his  mistake  irritated  him,  but  the  irritation  could  not 
conquer  its  cause,  and  each  day  the  longing  to  sit  once 
more  grew  upon  him  until  it  became  almost  painful.  It 
was  this  longing  which  occasioned  Valentine's  avoidance 
of  Julian.  He  knew  that  if  they  were  together  he  would 
yield  to  this  foolish,  witless  temptation,  and  at  any  rate 
try  to  persuade  Julian  into  an  act  which  might  be  at- 
tended with  misfortune,  if  not  with  disaster.  And  then 
Valentine's  profound  respect  for  Doctor  Levillier,  a 
respect  which  the  doctor  inspired  without  effort  in  every 
one  who  knew  him,  was  a  chain  almost  of  steel  to  hold 
the  young  man  back  from  gratification  of  his  longing. 
Valentine  never  sought  any  one's  advice  except  the  little 


66  FLAMES 

doctor's,  and  he  had  a  strong  feeling  of  the  obligation 
laid  upon  him  by  such  sought  advice.  To  ask  it  and  to 
reject  it  was  a  short  course  to  insult. 

He  resolved  to  avoid  Julian  until  this  gripping  desire 
was  shaken  from  the  shoulders  of  his  mind. 

Once  or  twice  he  tacitly  wondered  whether  Julian  was 
also  the  prey  of  this  desire,  but  then  he  felt  certain  that 
his  friend  could  not  be  so  afflicted.  Had  he  been,  Julian 
would  surely  have  found  a  swift  occasion  to  call.  But 
he  did  not  call.  His  feet  did  not  turn  their  accustomed 
way  to  Victoria  Street.  And  it  did  not  occur  to  Valen- 
tine that  Julian  might  be  immersed  in  the  same  sort  of 
struggle  as  himself.  He  thought  he  knew  Julian  well 
enough  to  be  sure  that  he  would  not  have  joined  issue 
with  such  an  enemy  without  instant  consultation.  A 
council  of  war  would  certainly  have  been  convened. 

So  Valentine  believed  himself  lonely  in  his  feeling. 
One  night  he  returned  from  the  theatre  and  a  succeed- 
ing supper  party  at  half-past  twelve,  let  himself  into  the 
fiat  with  a  latchkey,  threw  off  his  coat  and  stood  before 
the  fire.  His  usually  smooth,  white  forehead  was  puck- 
ered in  a  frown.  He  contemplated  the  inevitable  hours 
of  bed  with  dissatisfaction.  When  a  man  has  allowed  a 
vice  to  obtain  dominion  over  him  there  are  moments 
when  an  enforced  abstinence  from  it,  even  of  only  a  few 
hours,  seems  intolerably  irksome.  So  Valentine  felt 
now.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  must  sit  again;  that  he 
could  not  go  to  bed,  could  not  rest  and  sleep,  until  he 
gratified  his  desire.  Yet  what  was  he  to  do?  He  thought 
at  first  of  starting  out,  late  as  the  hour  was,  to  Julian's 
rooms.  But  that  would  be  ridiculous,  more  especially 
after  their  mutual  resolution.  Julian  might  refuse, 
would  probably,  in  any  event,  wish  to  refuse,  the  request 
which  he  came  to  make,  Valentine  strove  sincerely  to 
dismiss  the  desire  from  his  mind,  but  his  effort  was  en- 
tirely vain.  Presently  he  went  into  his  bedroom  with 
the  intention  of  forcing  himself  to  go,  as  usual,  to  bed. 
He  began  to  undress  slowly,  and  had  taken  off  his  coat 
and  waistcoat  when  he  felt  that  he  must  resume  them; 
that  he  must  remain,  unnecessarily,  up.  He  allowed  the 
mental  prompting  to   govern   him,  and  hardly  had  he 


PAUSE  67 

once  more  fully  attired  himself  when  the  electric  bell  in 
the  passage  rang  twice.  Valentine  went  to  the  door, 
opened  it,  and  descended  the  flight  of  stone  steps  to  the 
main  door  of  the  house,  which  was  locked  at  night. 
Julian  was  standing  outside  on  the  pavement. 

"You  are  still  up,  then,"  he  exclaimed.  "That's 
good.     May  I  come  in?  " 

"Yes,  of  course.     Where  have  you  been  to-night?" 

They  were  going  up,  their  footsteps  echoing  hoarsely 
in  the  dim  light. 

"  Nowhere." 

"  Then  what  made  you  turn  out  so  late?  " 

"Oh,"  Julian  said,  with  an  elaborate  carelessness; 
"  I  do  n't  know.  I  thought  we  were  becoming  strangers, 
I  suppose.     And  suddenly  I  resolved  to  look  you  up," 

"  I  see, "  Valentine  said,  wondering  why  Julian  was 
lying. 

By  this  time  they  were  in  the  flat  and  had  shut  the 
door  behind  them. 

"Why  haven't  you  been  near  me?"  Julian  said. 

"Why  have  n't  you  been  near  me?" 

"  Oh  —  well  —  do  you  want  to  know  really?  " 

"Yes;  if  you  have  got  a  definite  reason." 

"To  tell  the  truth,  I  have;  but  it  is  such  an  absurd 
one." 

Julian  looked  at  Valentine  and  then  added,  with  a 
decidedly  forced  laugh: 

"You'll  be  awfully  surprised  when  I  tell  you  what 
it  is,  Val.    T  want  to  sit  again." 

"Now  I  know  why  I  stopped  undressing  just  now, " 
said  Valentine.  "  I  must  have  had  a  sense  that  you 
were  coming.  Were  you  thinking  very  hard  of  me  to- 
night and  of  our  sittings?  " 

"Rather!  It  is  the  oddest  thing,  but  even  since  we 
had  that  talk  with  the  doctor  and  agreed  to  give  the 
whole  thing  up,  I  've  been  perfectly  miserable.  I  have  n't 
enjoyed  a  single  thing  I  've  done  since  that  night." 

"  Nor  I,"  said  Valentine. 

"What!  you  have  been  as  bad?  And  without  having 
Marr  continually  at  your  elbow!  " 

"  Marr  again!  " 


68  FLAMES 

"Again!  Yes,  I  should  think  so.  That  chap  has 
taken  a  fancy  to  me,  I  suppose.  Anyhow,  directly  I 
walk  into  the  club,  morning,  noon,  or  night,  up  he  comes. 
He    must  live  there.     And    the    first   thing  he   says  is, 

*  Have  you  gone  on  with  your  sittings?  You  should,  you 
should.'      To-day    he    changed    his    formula  and    said, 

*  You  must,  *  and  when  I  was  going  away,  he  looked  at 
me  in  a  damned  odd  way  and  remarked  in  his  low,  toneless 
voice,  *  You  will.'  I  declare  I  almost  think  he  must  have 
a  sort  of  influence  over  me,  for  I  could  n't  go  to  bed  for 
the  life  of  me,  and  here  I  am.  By  the  way,  Marr  seems 
to  have  a  sort  of  power  of  divination.  Last  night,  when 
I  happened  to  see  him,  he  began  talking  about  doctors, 
and,  by  Jove,  didn't  he  abuse  them!  He  says  they 
stand  more  in  the  way  of  the  development  of  the  spiritual 
forces  in  man  than  any  other  body  of  people.  He 
denounced  them  all  as  low  materialists,  immersed  in  the 
tinkering  of  the  flesh.  *  What  does  the  flesh  matter? ' 
he  said.  '  It  is  nothing.  It  is  only  an  envelope.  And 
the  more  tightly  it  is  fastened  together,  the  more  it 
stifles  the  spirit.  I  would  like  to  catch  hold  of  some 
men's  bodies  and  tear  them  in  pieces  to  get  at  their 
souls.'  Val,  as  he  made  that  cheerful  remark,  he  looked 
more  like  a  homicidal  maniac  than  anything  I  ever  saw. " 

"  I  suppose  you  did  n't  stand  up  for  the  doctors?  " 

"But  I  did  —  for  our  little  man.  D' you  think  I 
wasn't  going  to  say  a  word  for  him?  " 

**  What!  you  mentioned  his  name  to  this  chap?  " 

"Certainly.     Why  not?  " 

"  I  do  n't  know,"  Valentine  said,  hesitatingly. 

"What  objection  could  there  possibly  be?  " 

"None,  of  course  —  none.  I  simply  had  a  quite  un- 
reasonable feeling  that  I  wished  you  had  n't.   That  is  all. ' ' 

And  then  Valentine  relapsed  into  silence,  the  silence 
some  men  keep  when  they  are  needlessly,  uselessly 
irritated.  The  mention  of  Marr's  name  had  effected 
him  oddly.  He  now  felt  a  perverse  desire  not  to  sit, 
not  comply  with  the  rather  impertinent  prediction  of 
this  dark-featured  prophet  whom  he  had  never  seen.  To 
carry  out  this  prediction  would  seem  like  an  obedience 
to  a  stranger,  governing,  unseen,  and  at  a  distance.   Why 


PAUSE  69 

did  this  man  concern  himself  in  the  affairs  of  those  over 
whom  he  had  no  sovereignty,  with  whom  he  had  no 
friendship? 

"  Julian,"  Valentine  said  at  last,  abruptly,  "I  wish 
you  would  promise  me  something." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  To  drop  this  fellow,  Marr.  He  has  nothing  to  do 
with  us,  and  it  is  a  decided  impertinence,  this  curiosity  he 
shows  in  our  doings.  Do  n't  answer  any  more  of  his 
questions.  Tell  him  to  keep  his  advice  to  himself.  And 
if  you  really  believe  he  is  obtaining  an  influence  over  you, 
avoid  him." 

*'  You  talk  as  if  you  disliked  him." 

**  I  feel  as  if  I  hated  him." 

**  A  man  you  have  never  even  seen?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Well,  I  do  n't  take  to  him,  and  I  have  seen  him.  I 
will  drop  him  as  much  as  I  can.     I  promise  you  that." 

*  *  Thank  you ,  old  boy. '  * 

Julian  fidgetted  about  rather  uneasily,  touching  the 
ornaments  on  the  mantelpiece,  opening  and  shutting  his 
silver  cigarette-case  with  a  click.  It  was  obvious  that 
he  felt  restless  and  dissatisfied.     Then  he  said: 

"  Well,  are  we  going  to — " 

"  Surely  you  do  n't  mean  to  say  that  you  came  here 
to-night  to  persuade  me  into  doing  again  what  we  both 
decided  not  to  do  any  more?  "  asked  Valentine. 

"  I  came  to  try,"  Julian  replied  with  decision. 

He  looked  at  Valentine  and  then  added: 

"  And  do  you  know  I  have  been  thinking,  especially 
to-day,  that  you  were  of  the  same  mind  as  I." 

"How?" 

"  That  you  wanted  to  sit  again  as  much  as  I  did." 

"  But  I  do  n't  know  Marr,"  Valentine  said,  with  un- 
usual sarcasm. 

Julian  flushed  red,  like  a  man  who  has  been  stung. 

"  Perhaps  he  influences  you  through  me,  though,"  he 
said  with  a  laugh. 

"What  nonsense,  Julian!  If  I  thought  he  had  any- 
thing to  do  with  the  matter,  I  would  never  sit  again. 
But  he  can  have  nothing  to  do  with  it." 


70  FLAMES 

"  Of  course  not.  So  will  you  sit?  You  want  to  give 
in.     I  know  that." 

*'I  do." 

*'  I  was  sure  of  it." 

**  At  the  same  time,  remember  the  doctor's  advice." 

*'  Oh,  doctors  are  always  against  that  sort  of  thing." 

*'  Julian,  I  have  a  strong  feeling  that,  should  we  ever 
get  any  manifestation  at  all,  it  will  be  inimical,  even 
deadly,  to  one  or  both  of  us.  Each  time  we  have  sat  a 
sensation  of  distress  has  taken  hold  of  me,  and  each  time 
with  greater  force." 

"  Nerves!  " 

'-'  Well,  then,  the  hand  which  you  say  you  held  was 
nerves? " 

"  Perhaps.  But  that  is  just  it.  I  must  know,  or  at 
least  try  to  know.  It  is  inevitable.  We  can't  stop 
now,  Val,  whether  we  are  standing  on  the  threshold  of 
good,  or  evil,  or — nothing  at  all.  We  have  got  to  go 
on.     Besides,  you  and  I  have  not  effected  an  exchange." 

"  Of  souls?  No.  Perhaps  it  is  an  imbecile  proceed- 
ing to  try. ' ' 

"  No  matter." 

**  Or  a  dangerous  proceeding." 

*'  You  are  temporizing,  and  the  night  is  running  away 
as  hard  as  it  can.  Come,  now,  will  you  do  what  I  want 
— yes  or  no?  " 

After  a  long  hesitation,  Valentine  slowly  answered: 

"Yes." 

And  absurdly,  as  he  said  it,  he  felt  like  a  man  who 
tosses  the  dice  for  life  or  death. 


CHAPTER    IX 

THE   FOURTH  SITTING 

They  turned  the  light  off  and  sat  down  in  silence. 
Then  Julian  said: 

"Keep  your  hands  well  away  from  mine,  Val. " 

"I  will." 

They  had  not  been  sitting  for  five  minutes  before  Val- 
entine felt  that  the  atmosphere  was  becoming  impreg- 
nated with  a  certain  heaviness  of  mystery,  with  a  certain 
steady  and  unyielding  dreariness  hanging  round  them 
like  a  cloud.  They  were  once  again  confronted  by  a 
strange  reality.  Surely  they  were.  Valentine  felt  it, 
silently  knew  it. 

In  this  blackness  he  seemed  at  length  to  step  forward 
and  to  stand  upon  the  very  threshold  of  an  abyss,  beyond 
which,  in  vague  vapours,  lay  things  unknown,  creatures 
unsuspected  hitherto.  From  this  darkness  anything 
might  come  to  them,  angel  or  devil,  nymph  or  satyr.  So, 
at  least,  he  dreamed  for  a  while,  giving  his  imagination 
the  rein.  Then,  in  a  revulsion  of  feeling,  he  jeered  at  his 
folly,  mutely  scolded  his  nerves  for  spurring  him  to  such 
flagrant  imbecilities. 

"This  is  all  nonsense,"  he  told  himself,  "all  fancy, 
all  a  world  created,  peopled,  endowed  with  life  by  my 
desirous  mind,  which  longs  for  a  new  sensation.  I  will 
not  encourage  this  absurdity.  I  will  be  calm,  cold, 
observant,  discriminating.  This  is  the  same  darkness  in 
which  every  night  I  sleep,  with  no  sense  of  being  sur- 
rounded by  forms  which  I  cannot  see,  pressed  upon  by 
the  denizens  of  some  other  sphere,  not  that  in  which  I 
breathe  and  live." 

He  deliberately  detached  himself  from  his  mood  of 
keen  expectation,  and  ardently  resolved  to  anticipate 
nothing.     And  at  this  moment  the  table  began  to  shift 

71 


72  FLAMES 

along  the  carpet,  to  twist  under  their  hands,  to  rap,  to 
tremble,  and  to  pulsate,  as  if  breath  had  entered  into  it. 
Like  some  live  animal  it  stirred  beneath  their  pressing 
fingers. 

"  It  is  beginning,"  Julian  whispered. 

"Animal  magnetism,"  Valentine  murmured. 

•  *  Yes,  of  course, ' '  Julian  replied.    * '  Shall  I  ask  —  ' ' 

"Hush!  "  Valentine  interrupted. 

Julian  was  silent. 

For  some  time  the  table  continued  its  stereotyped 
performances.  Then  it  tremblingly  ceased,  and  stood, 
mere  dead  furniture  of  every  day,  wood  on  which  lay  the 
four  hands  made  deliberately  limp.  A  long  period  of 
unpopulated  silence  ensued,  and  through  that  silence, 
very  gradually,  came  again  to  Valentine  a  growing  sense 
of  anxiety.  At  first  he  fought  against  it  as  most  men, 
perhaps  out  of  self-respect,  fight  against  the  entrance  of 
fear  into  their  souls.  Then  he  yielded  to  it,  and  let  it 
crawl  over  him,  as  the  sea  crawls  over  flat  sands.  And 
the  sea  left  no  inch  of  sand  uncovered.  Every  cranny 
of  Valentine's  soul  was  flooded.  There  was  no  part  of 
it  which  did  not  shudder  with  apprehension.  And  out- 
wards flowed  this  invisible,  unmurmuring  tide,  devouring 
his  body,  till  the  sweat  was  upon  his  face  and  his  strained 
hands  and  trembling  fingers  were  cold  like  ice,  and  his 
knees  fluttered  as  the  knees  of  palsied  age,  and  his 
teeth  clicked,  row  against  row,  and  his  hairs  stirred,  and 
his  head,  under  its  thatch,  tingled  and  burned  and 
throbbed.  Every  faculty,  too,  seemed  to  stand  straight 
up  like  a  sentinel  at  its  post,  staring  into  dust  clouds 
through  which  rode  an  approaching  enemy.  Eyes 
watched,  ears  listened,  brain  was  hideously  alert.  The 
whole  body  kept  itself  tense,  stiff,  wary.  For  Valentine 
had  a  secret  conviction  at  this  moment  that  he  was  about 
to  be  attacked.  By  what  ?  He  was  hardly  master  of 
himself  enough  to  wonder.  His  thoughts  no  longer  ran 
free.  They  crept  like  paralyzed  things  about  his  mind, 
and  that  despite  the  unnatural  vitality  of  his  brain.  It 
was  as  if  he  thought  intensely,  violently,  and  yet  could 
not  think  at  all,  as  a  man  terrified  may  stare  with  wide 
open  eyes  and  yet  perceive  nothing,  lacking  for  a  mo- 


THE   FOURTH   SITTING  73 

merit  the  faculty  of  perceiving.  So  Valentine  waited, 
like  some  blind  man  with  glaring  eyeballs.  And  then, 
passing  into  another  stage  of  sensation,  he  found  himself 
vehemently  and  rapidly  discussing  possibilities  of  terror, 
forming  mental  pictures  of  all  the  things,  of  all  the 
powers,  that  we  cannot  see.  He  embodied,  materialized, 
the  wind,  the  voice  of  the  sea,  the  angry,  hot  scent  of 
certain  flowers,  of  the  white  lily,  the  tuberose,  the  hya- 
cinth. He  created  figures  for  light,  for  darkness,  for  a 
wail,  for  a  laugh,  and  set  them  in  array  all  around  him 
in  the  blackness.  But  none  of  these  imagined  figures 
could  cause  the  horror  which  he  felt.  He  drove  away 
the  whole  pack  of  them  with  a  silent  cry,  a  motionless 
dismissing  wave  of  his  hands.  But  there  might  be  other 
beings  round  us,  condemned  to  eternal  invisibility  lest 
the  sight  of  them  should  drive  men  mad.  We  cannot  see 
them,  he  thought.  As  a  rule,  we  have  no  sensation  of 
these  gaunt  neighbours,  no  suspicion  of  their  approach, 
of  their  companionship.  We  do  not  hear  their  foot- 
steps. We  are  utterly  unconscious  of  them.  Yet  may 
there  not  be  physical  or  mental  paroxysms,  during  which 
we  become  conscious  of  them,  during  which  we  know, 
beyond  all  power  of  doubt,  that  they  are  near  us,  with 
us?  And,  in  such  paroxysms,  is  it  not  possible  for  them 
to  break  through  the  intangible  and  yet  all-powerful 
barriers  that  divide  them  from  us,  and  to  touch  us, 
caress  us,  attack  us?  Valentine  believed  that  he  was 
immersed  in  such  a  paroxysm,  and  that  the  barriers  were 
in  process  of  being  broken  down.  He  seemed  actually 
to  hear  the  faint  cry  of  an  approaching  being,  the  dim 
uproar  of  its  violent  efforts  to  obtain  its  sinister  will, 
and  gain  the  power  to  make  itself  known  to  him  by  some 
ghastly  and  malignant  deed.      He  was  unutterably  afraid. 

"  The  hand  again !  "  Julian  suddenly  cried.  "  Valen- 
tine, is  it  yours?  Why  don't  you  answer?  I  say,  is  it 
yours?  " 

*' No,"  Valentine  forced  himself,  with  difficulty,  to 
reply. 

"  For  God's  sake  then — the  light!  " 

Valentine  felt  for  it,  but  his  hand  shook  and  did  not 
find  the  button. 


74  FLAMES 

*•  Make  haste,  Val.     What  are  you  doing?     Ah!" 

The  room  sprang  into  view,  and  Julian's  eyes,  with  a 
furious,  sick  eagerness,  sought  his  hands. 

"Valentine,"  he  exclaimed  hoarsely,  "  I  see  nothing, 
but  I  've  got  hold  of  the  hand  still.  I  've  got  it  tight. 
Put  your  hand  here — that's  it — under  mine.  Now  d'  you 
feel  the  thing?" 

Julian's  hand,  contracted  as  if  grasping  another,  was 
in  the  air,  about  an  inch,  or  an  inch  and  a  half,  above 
the  surface  of  the  table.  Valentine  obediently  thrust 
his  hand  beneath  it.     He  now  shook  his  head. 

"I  feel  nothing,"  he  said.      "There  is  nothing." 

"  Then  am  I  mad?  "  said  Julian.  "  I  'm  holding  flesh 
and  blood.  I  'II  swear  that.  Yes,  I  can  feel  the  fingers 
twitching,  the  muscles,  the  bones.  I  can  even  trace  the 
veins.     What  does  this  mean?  " 

♦'I  can't  tell." 

*'  You  look  very  strange,  Valentine.  You  are  certain 
you  see  and  feel  nothing? " 

"Nothing  whatever,"  Valentine  forced  himself  to 
answer  calmly. 

"We  '11  see  this  through,"  said  Julian  with  a  sort  of 
angry  determination.  "  I  won't  be  frightened  by  a  hand. 
We  '11  see  it  through.     Out  with  the  light. " 

Valentine  turned  it  off.  The  action  was  purely  me- 
chanical.    He  had  to  perform  it,  whether  he  would  or  no. 

"  Don't  speak,"  he  whispered  to  Julian  in  the  dark- 
ness, "  Do  n't  speak,  whatever  happens,  till  I  ask  you  to 
speak." 

"Why?" 

"Don't;  don't!" 

"All  right." 

They  sat  still. 

And  now  the  horror  that  had  possessed  Valentine  so 
utterly  began  to  fade  away,  making  its  exit  from  his 
body  and  soul  with  infinitesimally  small  steps.  At  length 
it  had  quite  gone,  and  its  place  was  taken  by  a  numb 
calm,  level  and  still  at  first,  then  curiously  definite, 
almost  too  definite  to  be  calm  at  all.  Gradually  this 
calm  withdrew  into  exhaustion,  an  exhaustion  such  as 
dwells  incessantly  with  the  anaemic,  with  those  whose 


THE    FOURTH   SITTING  75 

hearts  beat  feebly  and  whose  vitality  flickers  low  to 
fading.  That  was  like  a  delicious  arrival  of  death,  of 
death  delicate  and  serene,  ivory  white  and  pure,  death 
desirable,  grateful.  Valentine  indeed  believed  that  he 
was  dying,  there  in  the  darkness  beside  his  friend,  and, 
impersonally  as  it  seemed,  something  of  him,  his  brain 
perhaps,  seemed  to  be  floating  high  up,  as  a  bird  floats 
over  the  sea,  and  listening,  and  noting  all  that  he  did  in 
this  crisis.  This  attentive  spirit  heard  a  strange  move- 
ment of  his  soul  in  its  bodily  prison,  heard  his  soul  stir, 
as  if  waking  out  of  sleep,  heard  it  shift,  and  rise  up 
slowly,  noted  its  pause  of  hesitation.  Then,  as  the 
vitality  of  the  body  ebbed  lower,  there  grew  in  the  soul 
an  excitement  that  aspired  like  a  leaping  flame.  It  was 
as  if  a  madman,  prisoned  in  his  narrow  cell  in  a  vast 
asylum,  secluded  with  his  company  of  phantoms,  heard 
the  crackling  of  the  fire  that  devoured  his  habitation, 
and  was  stirred  into  an  ignorant  and  yet  tumultuous 
passion.  As  the  madman,  with  a  childish,  increasing  un- 
easiness, awed  by  the  sinuous  approach  of  the  unseen 
fire,  might  pace  to  and  fro,  round  and  round  about  his- 
ceil,  so  it  seemed  to  this  poised,  watching  faculty  of  Val- 
entine that  his  soul  wandered  in  its  confined  cell  of  the 
body,  at  first  with  the  cushioned  softness  of  an  animal, 
moving  mechanically,  driven  by  an  endless  and  unmean- 
ing restlessness,  then  with  an  increasing  energy,  a 
fervour,  a  crescendo  of  endeavour.  What  drove  his 
soul?  Surely  it  was  struggling  with  an  unseen  power. 
And  the  steady  diminuendo  of  his  bodily  forces  con- 
tinued, until  he  was  a  corpse  in  which  a  fury  dwelt.  That 
fury  was  the  soul.  He  had  a  strange  fancy  that  he, 
unlike  all  the  rest  of  humanity,  would  die,  yet  still  retain 
his  spirit  in  its  fleshy  prison,  and  that  the  spirit  screamed 
and  fought  to  be  free  on  its  wayward  pilgrimage  to 
heaven  or  hell.  All  its  brother  and  sister  spirits  had 
fled,  since  the  beginnings  of  time,  from  their  bodies  at 
the  crisis  of  dissolution,  had  gone  to  punishment  or  to 
reward.  His  soul  alone  was  to  meet  a  different  fate, 
was  to  be  confined  in  a  decaying  body,  to  breathe  physical 
corruption,  and  to  be  at  home  in  a  crumbling  dwelling  to 
which  no  light,  no  air,  could  ever  penetrate.     And  the 


76  FLAMES 

soul,  which  knows  instinctively  its  eternal  metier,  rebelled 
with  a  fantastic  violence.  And  still,  ever,  the  body  died. 
The  pulses  ceased  from  beating.  The  warm  blood  was 
mixed  with  snow  until  it  grew  cold  and  gradually  con- 
gealed in  the  veins.  The  little  door  of  the  heart  swung 
slower  and  slower  upon  its  hinges,  more  feebly — more 
feebly.  And  then  there  came  a  supreme  moment.  The 
soul  of  Valentine,  with  a  frantic  vehemence,  beat  down 
at  last  its  prison  door,  and,  even  as  his  body  died,  es- 
caped with  a  cry  through  the  air. 

***** 

**  Valentine,  did  you  hear  that  strange  cry?  " 

'*  Valentine,  what  was  it?  I  never  heard  any  sound 
like  that  before,  so  thin  and  small,  and  yet  so  horribly 
clear  and  piercing;  neither  like  the  cry  of  a  child  nor  of 
an  animal,  nor  like  the  wail  that  could  come  from  any 
instrument.  Valentine,  now  I  see  a  little  flame  come 
from  where  you  are  sitting.  It's  so  tiny  and  faint. 
Do  n't  you  see  it?  It  is  floating  toward  me.  Now  it  is 
passing  me.  It 's  beyond.  It 's  going.  There,  it  has 
vanished.     Valentine!     Valentine!" 


BOOK  II— JULIAN 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  TRANCE 

Gaining  no  reply  to  his  call,  Julian  grew  alarmed. 
He  sprang  up  from  the  table  and  turned  on  the  electric 
light.  Valentine  was  leaning  back  nervelessly  in  his 
chair.  His  face  was  quite  pale  and  cold.  His  lips  were 
slightly  parted.  His  eyes  were  wide  open  and  stared 
before  him  without  expression.  His  head  hung  far  back 
over  the  edge  of  his  chair.  He  looked  exactly  like  a 
man  who  had  just  died,  and  died  in  a  convulsion.  For 
though  the  lips  were  parted,  the  teeth  set  tightly  together 
grinned  through  them,  and  the  hands  were  intensely  con- 
tracted into  fists.  Julian  seized  Valentine  in  his  arms, 
lifted  the  drooping  body  from  the  chair  and  laid  it  out  at 
length  on  the  divan.  He  put  a  pillow  under  the  head, 
which  fell  on  it  grotesquely  and  lay  sideways,  still  smiling 
horribly  at  nothing.  Then  he  poured  out  a  glass  of 
brandy  and  strove  to  force  some  of  it  between  Valen- 
tine's teeth,  dashed  water  in  the  glaring  eyes,  beat  the 
air  with  a  fan  which  he  tore  from  the  mantelpiece.  All 
was  in  vain.  There  came  no  sign  of  returning  life. 
Then  Julian  caught  Valentine's  hands  in  his  and  sought 
to  unclench  the  rigid,  cold  fingers.  He  laid  his  hand  on 
the  heart  of  his  friend.  No  pulsation  beat  beneath  his 
anxious  touch.  Then  a  great  horror  overtook  him. 
Suddenly  he  felt  a  conviction  that  Valentine  had  died 
beside  him  in  the  dark,  had  died  sitting  up  in  his  chair 
by  the  table.  The  cry  he  had  heard,  so  thin,  so  strange 
and  piercing,  the  attenuated  flame  that  he  had  seen, 
were  the  voice  and  the  vision  of  the  flying  soul  which  he 
had  loved,  seeking  its  final  freedom,  en  route  to  the  dis- 
tant spheres  believers  dream  of  and  sceptics  deny. 

77 


78  FLAMES 

"Valentine!  Valentine!"  he  cried  again,  with  the 
desperate  insistence  of  the  hopeless.  But  the  cold, 
staring  creature  upon  the  green  divan  did  not  reply. 
With  a  brusque  and  fearful  movement  Julian  shut  the 
eyelids.  Would  they  ever  open  again?  He  knelt  upon 
the  floor,  leaning  passionately  over  his  friend,  or  that 
which  had  been  his  friend.  He  bent  his  head  down  on 
the  silent  breast,  listening.  Surely  if  Valentine  were 
alive  he  would  show  it  by  some  sign,  the  least  stir, 
breath,  shiver,  pulse.  There  was  none.  Julian  might 
have  been  clasping  stone  or  iron.  If  he  could  only  know 
for  certain  whether  Valentine  were  really  dead.  Yet  he 
dared  not  leave  him  alone  and  go  to  seek  aid.  Suddenly 
a  thought  struck  him.  In  the  hall  of  the  flat  was  a  han- 
dle which,  when  turned  in  a  certain  direction,  communi- 
cated with  one  of  those  wooden  and  glass  hutches  in 
which  sleepy  boy-messengers  harbour  at  night.  Julian 
sprang  to  this  handle,  set  the  communicator  in  motion, 
then  ran  back  into  the  tentroom.  His  intention  was  to 
write  a  note  to  Dr.  Levillier.  The  writing-table  was  so 
placed  that,  sitting  at  it,  his  back  would  be  turned  to 
that  silent  figure  on  the  divan.  A  shiver  ran  over  him 
at  the  bare  thought  of  such  a  blind  posture.  No,  he 
must  face  that  terror,  once  so  dear.  He  caught  up  a 
pen  and  a  sheet  of  note  paper,  and,  swerving  round,  was 
about  to  write,  holding  the  paper  on  his  knee,  when  the 
electric  bell  rang.  The  boy  had  been  very  quick  in  his 
run  from  the  hutch.  Julian  laid  down  the  paper  and 
went  to  let  the  boy  in.  His  knees  shook  as  he  descended 
the  dark,  echoing  stairs  and  opened  the  door.  There 
stood  the  messenger,  a  rosy-faced  urchin  of  about  twelve, 
with  rather  sleepy  brown  eyes. 

"  Come  up,"  Julian  said,  and  he  hurried  back  to  the 
flat,  the  little  boy  violently  emulating  his  giant  stride  up 
the  stairs  and  arriving  flushed  and  panting  at  the  door. 
Julian,  who  was  entirely  abstracted  in  his  agitation, 
made  for  the  tentroom  without  another  word  to  the  boy, 
seized  pen  and  paper  and  began  to  write,  urgently  re- 
questing Dr.  Levillier  to  come  at  once  to  see  Valentine. 
Abruptly  a  childish  voice  intruded  itself  upon  him. 

"  Lor',  sir,"  it  said.     *'  Is  the  gentleman  ill?  " 


THE   TRANCE  79 

Julian  glanced  up  and  found  that  the  little  boy  had 
innocently  followed  him  into  the  tentroom,  and  was  now 
standing  near  him,  gazing  with  a  round-eyed  concern 
upon  the  stretched  figure  on  the  divan. 

"Yes,"  Julian  replied;  "ill,  very  ill.  I  want  you  to 
go  for  a  doctor." 

The  boy  approached  the  divan,  moved  apparently  by 
the  impelling  curiosity  of  tender  years.  Julian  stopped 
writing  and  watched  him.  He  leaned  down  and  looked 
at  the  face,  at  the  inertia  of  hands  and  limbs.  As  he 
raised  himself  up  from  a  calm  and  close  inspection  he 
saw  Julian  staring  at  him.  He  shook  his  round  bullet 
head,  on  which  the  thick  hair  grew  in  an  unparted  stubble. 
"  No,  I  don't  think  he  's  ill,  sir,"  he  remarked,  with 
treble  conviction. 

"  Then  why  does  he  lie  like  that?  " 

*'  I  expect  it  's  because  he  's  dead,  sir,"  the  child  re- 
plied, with  grave  serenity. 

This  unbiased  testimony  in  favour  of  his  fears  came  to 
Julian's  mind  like  a  storm. 

"  How  do  you  know?"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  harsh 
voice. 

"Lor',  sir,"  the  boy  said,  not  without  a  certain  pride, 
"  I  knows  a  corpse  when  I  sees  it.  My  father  died  come 
a  fortnight  ago.     See  that?  " 

And  he  indicated,  with  stumpy  finger,  the  black  band 
upon  his  left  arm. 

"Well,  father  looked  just  like  the  gentleman." 

Julian  was  petrified  by  this  urchin's  intimacy  with 
death.  It  struck  him  as  utterly  vicious  and  terrible.  A 
horror  of  the  rosy-faced  little  creature,  with  good-con- 
duct medals  gleaming  on  its  breast,  came  over  him. 

"  Hush!  "  he  said. 

"All  right,  sir;  but  you  take  my  word  for  it,  the  gen- 
tleman 's  dead." 

Julian  finished  the  note,  thrust  it  into  an  envelope, 
and  addressed  it  to  the  doctor. 

"  Run  and  get  a  cab  and  take  that  at  once  to  Harley 
Street,"  he  said. 

The  boy  smiled. 

"I  like  cab-riding, "  he  said. 


8o  FLAMES 

"And,"  Julian  caught  his  arm,  "that  gentleman  is 
not  dead.  He  's  alive,  I  tell  you;  only  in  a  faint,  and 
alive." 

The  boy  looked  into  Julian's  face  with  the  pitying 
grin  of  superior  knowledge  of  the  world. 

"Ah,  sir,  you  did  n't  see  father,"  he  said. 

Then  he  turned  and  bounded  eagerly  down  the  stairs, 
in  a  hurry  for  the  cab-ride. 

Loneliness  and  desolation  descended  like  a  cloud  over 
Julian  when  he  had  gone,  for  the  frank  belief  of  the  boy, 
who  cared  nothing,  struck  like  an  arrow  of  truth  to  his 
heart,  who  cared  everything.  Was  Valentine  indeed 
dead?  He  would  not  believe  it,  for  such  a  belief  would 
bring  the  world  in  ruins  about  his  feet.  Such  a  belief 
would  people  his  soul  with  phantoms  of  despair  and  of 
wickedness.  Could  he  not  cry  out  against  God  in  blas- 
phemy, if  God  took  his  friend  from  him?  The  tears 
rushed  into  his  eyes,  as  he  sat  waiting  there  in  the  night. 
As  before  a  drowning  man,  scenes  of  the  last  five  years 
flashed  before  him,  painted  in  vital  colours, — scenes  of  his 
life  with  Valentine, —  then  scenes  of  all  that  might  have 
been  had  he  never  met  Valentine,  never  known  his 
strange  mastering  influence.  Could  that  influence  have 
been  given  only  to  be  withdrawn?  Of  all  the  inexplica- 
ble things  of  life  the  most  inexplicable  are  the  abrupt 
intrusions  and  disappearances  of  those  lovely  manifesta- 
tions which  give  healing  to  tired  hearts,  to  the  wounded 
soldiers  of  the  campaign  of  the  world.  Why  are  they 
not  permitted  to  stay?  Bitterly  Julian  asked  that  ques- 
tion. Of  all  the  men  whom  he  knew,  only  Valentine  did 
anything  for  him.  Must  Valentine,  of  all  men,  be  the 
one  who  might  not  stay  with  him?  The  rest  he  could 
spare.  He  could  not  spare  Valentine.  He  could  not. 
The  impotence  of  his  patience  tortured  him  physically, 
like  a  disease.  He  sprang  up  from  his  chair.  He  must 
do  something  at  once  to  know  the  truth.  What  could 
he  do?  He  had  no  knowledge  of  medicine.  He  could 
not  tabulate  physical  indications,  and  he  would  not  trust 
to  his  infernal  instinct.  For  it  was  that  which  cried  to 
him  again  and  again,  "Valentine  is  dead."  What  — 
what  could  he  do? 


THE   TRANCE  8i 

A  thought  darted  into  his  mind.  Dogs  are  miracu- 
lously instinctive.  Rip  might  know  what  he  did  not 
certainly  know,  might  divine  the  truth.  He  ran  into 
Valentine's  bedroom. 

"Rip,"  he  cried;  "Rip!" 

The  little  dog  sprang  from  its  lonely  sleep  and  ac- 
companied Julian  energetically  to  the  tentroom.  Ob- 
serving Valentine's  attitude,  it  sprang  upon  the  couch 
beside  him,  licked  his  white  face  eagerly,  then,  gaining 
no  response,  showed  hesitation,  alarm.  It  began  to  in- 
vestigate the  body  eagerly  with  its  sharp  nose,  snuffing 
at  head,  shoulders,  legs,  feet.  Still  it  seemed  in  doubt, 
and  paused  at  length  with  one  fore  foot  planted  on  Val- 
entine's breast,  the  other  raised  in  air. 

"Even  Rip  is  at  fault,"  Julian  said  to  himself.  But 
as  the  words  ran  through  his  mind,  the  little  dog  grew 
suddenly  calmer.  It  dropped  the  hesitating  paw,  again 
licked  the  face,  then  nestled  quietly  into  the  space  be- 
tween Valentine's  left  breast  and  arm,  rested  its  chin 
on  the  latter,  and  with  blinking  eyes  prepared  evi- 
dently for  repose,     A  wild  hope  came  again  to  Julian. 

"  Valentine  is  not  dead,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  He  is 
in  some  strange  hypnotic  trance.  Presently  he  will  re- 
cover from  it.  He  will  be  well.  Thank  God!  Thank 
God!     I  will  watch!" 

And  so  he  kept  an  attentive  and  hopeful  vigil,  his  eyes 
always  upon  Valentine's  face,  his  hand  always  touching 
Valentine's.  Already  life  seemed  blossoming  anew  with 
an  inexplicable  radiance.  Valentine  would  speak  once 
more,  would  come  back  from  this  underworld  of  the 
senses.  And  Julian's  hand  closed  on  his  cold  hand  with 
a  warm,  impulsive  strength,  as  if  it  might  be  possible  to 
draw  him  back  physically  to  consciousness  and  to  speech. 
But  there  was  no  answer.  And  again  Julian  was  assailed 
with  doubts.  Yet  the  dog  slept  on  happily,  a  hostage  to 
peace. 

Julian  never  knew  how  long  that  vigil  lasted.  It 
might  have  been  five  minutes,  or  a  lifetime.  The  vehe- 
mence of  his  mental  debate  slew  his  power  of  observa- 
tion of  normal  things.  He  forgot  what  he  was  waiting 
for.     He  forgot  to  expect  Dr.  Levillier.     Two  visions 


82  FLAMES 

alternated  in  glaring  contrast  before  the  eyes  of  his  brain 
—  life  with  Valentin^,  and  life  without  him.  It  is  so  we 
watch  the  trance,  or  death, —  we  know  not  which, —  of 
those  whom  we  love,  with  a  greedy,  beautiful  selfishness. 
They  are  themselves  only  in  relation  to  us.  They  live, 
they  die,  in  that  wonderful  relation.  To  live  is  to  be  with 
us;  to  die,  to  go  away  from  us.  There  are  women  who 
love  so  much  that  they  angrily  expostulate  with  the 
dying,  as  if  indeed  the  dying  deliberately  elected  to 
depart  out  of  their  arms.  Do  we  not  all  feel  at  moments 
the  '*  You  could  stay  with  me,  if  only  you  had  the  will!  " 
that  is  the  last  bitter  cry  of  despairing  affection?  Julian, 
sitting  there,  while  Valentine  lay  silent  and  the  dog  slept 
by  his  breast,  saw  ever  and  ever  those  two  lives,  flashing 
and  fading  like  lamps  across  a  dark  sea,  life  with,  life 
without,  him.  The  immensity  of  the  contrast,  the 
millions  of  airy  miles  between  those  two  life-worlds,  ap- 
palled him,  for  it  revealed  to  him  what  mighty  issues  of 
joy  and  grief  hung  upon  the  almost  visionary  thin  thread 
of  one  little  life.  It  is  ghastly  to  be  so  idiotically  de- 
pendent. Yet  who,  at  some  time,  is  not?  And  those 
who  are  independent  lose,  by  their  power,  their  possible 
Paradise.  But  such  a  time  of  uncertainty  as  that  which 
Julian  must  now  endure  is  a  great  penalty  to  pay  for  even 
the  greatest  joy,  when  the  joy  is  past.  He  had  his  trance 
of  the  mind.  He  was  hypnotized  by  his  ignorance 
whether  Valentine  were  alive  or  dead.  And  so  he  sat 
motionless,  making  the  tour  of  an  eternity  of  suffering, 
of  wonder,  of  doubt,  and  hope,  and  yet,  through  it  all, 
in  some  strange,  idefinite  way,  numb,  phlegmatic,  and 
actually  stupid. 

At  last  the  bell  rang.  Dr.  Levillier  had  arrived. 
He  was  struck  at  once  by  Julian's  heaviness  of  manner. 

**  What  is  it?     What  is  the  matter?"  he  asked. 

**  I  do  n't  know.     You  tell  me." 

**  He  is  fainting — unconscious?  " 

**  Unconscious,  yes." 

They  were  in  the  little  hall  now.  Doctor  Levillier 
narrowly  scrutinized  Julian.  For  a  moment  he  thought 
Julian  had  been  drinking,  and  he  took  him  by  the  arm. 


THE  TRANCE  83 

**No;  it  is  fear,"  he  murmured,  releasing  him,  and 
walking  into  the  tentroom. 

Julian  followed  with  a  loud  footstep,  treading  firmly. 
Each  step  said  to  Death,  "  You  are  not  here.  You  are 
not  here." 

He  stood  at  a  little  distance  near  the  door,  while  Lev- 
illier  approached  Valentine  and  bent  over  him.  Rip 
woke  up  and  curled  his  top  lip  in  a  terrier  smile  of  wel- 
come. The  doctor  stroked  his  head,  then  lifted  Valen- 
tine's hand  and  held  the  wrist.  He  dropped  it,  and 
threw  a  glance  on  Julian.  There  was  a  scream  of  inter- 
rogation in  Julian's  fixed  eyes.  Doctor  Levillier  avoided 
it  by  dropping  his  own,  and  again  turning  his  attention 
to  the  figure  on  the  divan.  He  undid  Valentine's  shirt, 
bared  the  breast,  and  laid  his  hand  on  the  heart,  keeping 
it  there  for  a  long  time. 

*'  Fetch  me  a  hand-glass,"  he  said  to  Julian. 

Mechanically,  Julian  went  into  the  bedroom,  and 
groped  in  the  dark  upon  the  dressing-table. 

"Well,  have  you  got  it?  Why  don't  you  turn  up 
the  light?  " 

"  I  do  n't  know,"  Julian  answered,  drily. 

Doctor  Levillier  saw  that  anxiety  was  beginning  to 
unnerve  him.  When  the  glass  was  found  the  doctor  led 
Julian  back  to  the  tentroom  and  pushed  him  gently 
down  in  a  chair. 

"  Keep  quiet,"  he  said.      "And — keep  hoping." 

"  There  is — there  is — hope?  " 

"Why  not?" 

Then  the  doctor  held  the  little  glass  to  Valentine's 
lips.  The  bright  surface  was  not  dimmed.  No  breath 
of  life  tarnished  it  to  dulness.  Again  the  doctor  felt 
his  heart,  drew  his  eyelids  apart,  and  carefully  examined 
the  eyes,  then  turned  slowly  round. 

"Doctor  —  doctor!"  Julian  whispered.  "Why  do 
you  turn  away?     What  are  you  going  to  do?  " 

Doctor  Levillier  made  a  gesture  of  finale,  and  knelt 
on  the  floor  by  Valentine.  His  head  was  bowed.  His 
lips  moved  silently.  Julian  saw  that  he  was  praying, 
and   sprang   up  fiercely.     All   the   frost   of   his   senses 


84  FLAMES 

thawed  in  a  moment.  He  seized  Levillier  by  the  shoul- 
ders. 

**  Do  n't  pray!  "  he  cried  out;  "  do  n't  pray.  Curse! 
Curse  as  I  do!  If  he  's  dead  you  shall  not  pray.  You 
shall  not!     You  shall  not!  " 

The  little  doctor  drew  him  down  to  his  knees. 

"Julian,  hush!  My  science  tells  me  Valentine  is 
dead." 

Julian  opened  his  white  lips,  but  the  doctor,  with  a 
motion,  silenced  him,  and  added,  pointing  to  Rip,  who 
still  lay  happily  by  his  master's  side: 

"  But  that  dog  seems  to  tell  me  he  is  alive;  that  this 
is  some  strangely  complete  and  perfect  simulation  of 
death,  some  unnatural  sleep  of  the  senses.  Pray,  pray 
with  me  that  Valentine  may  wake." 

And,  kneeling  by  his  friend,  with  bent  head,  Julian 
strove  to  pray.  The  answer  to  that  double  prayer 
pierced  the  two  men.  It  was  so  instant,  and  so  bizarre, 
fighting  against  probability,  yet  heralding  light,  and  the 
end  of  that  night's  pale  circumstances. 

Rip,  relapsing  quickly  from  his  perfunctory  smile  on 
the  doctor,  had  again  fallen  asleep  with  an  evident  ex- 
ceeding confidence  and  comfort,  snoring  his  way  into  an 
apparent  peace  that  passed  all  understanding.  But 
scarcely  had  the  doctor  spoken,  giving  Julian  hope,  than 
the  little  dog  suddenly  opened  its  eyes,  shifted  round  in 
its  nest  of  arm  and  bosom,  smelt  furtively  at  Valentine's 
hand.  Then  it  turned  from  the  hand  to  the  side  of  its 
master,  investigated  it  with  a  supreme  anxiety,  pursued 
its  search  as  far  as  the  white,  strict  face  and  bared 
bosom.  From  the  face  it  recoiled,  and  with  a  piercing 
howl  like  the  scream  of  a  dog  run  over  by  a  cart,  it 
sprang  away,  darted  to  the  farthest  corner  of  the  room, 
and  huddled  close  against  the  wall  in  an  agony  of  terror. 

Julian  turned  cold.  He  believed  implicitly  that  the 
trance  at  that  very  moment  had  deepened  into  death, 
and  that  the  sleepless  instinct  of  the  dog  had  divined  it 
partially  while  he  slept,  and  now  knew  it  and  was  afraid. 
And  the  same  error  of  belief  shook  Dr.  Levillier.  A 
spasm  crossed  his  thin,  earnest  face.  No  death  had 
ever  hurt  him  so  sharply  as  this  death   hurt  him.     He 


THE   TRANCE  85 

saw  Julian  recoil  in  horror  from  the  divan,  and  he  could 
say  nothing.     For  he,  too,  felt  horror. 

But  in  this  moment  of  despair  Valentine's  hands 
slowly  unclenched  themselves,  and  the  fingers  were 
gradually  extended  as  by  a  man  stretching  himself  after 
a  long  sleep. 

The  doctor  saw  this,  but  believed  himself  a  victim  of 
a  delusion,  tricked  by  the  excitement  of  his  mind  into 
foolish  visions.  And  Julian  had  turned  quite  away, 
trembling.  But  now  Valentine  moved  slightly,  pressed 
his  elbows  on  the  cushions  that  supported  him,  and  half 
sat  up,  still  with  closed  eyes. 

"Julian,"  Dr.  Levillier  said  in  a  low,  summoning 
voice, — "Julian,  do  you  see  what  I  see?  Is  he  indeed 
alive?     Julian." 

Then  Julian,  turning,  saw,  with  the  doctor,  Valentine 
sit  up  erect,  open  his  eyes  and  gaze  upon  his  two  friends 
with  a  grave,  staring  scrutiny. 

"Valentine,  Valentine,  how  you  frightened  me!  How 
you  terrified  me!  "  Julian  at  last  found  a  voice  to  ex- 
claim. "Thank  God,  thank  God!  you  are  alive.  Oh, 
Valentine,  you  are  alive;  you  are  not  dead." 

Valentine's  lips  smiled  slowly. 

"Dead,"  he  answered.      "No;  I  am  not  dead." 

And  again  he  smiled  quietly,  as  a  man  smiles  at  some 
secret  thought  which  tickles  him  or  whips  the  sense  of 
humour  in  him  till,  like  an  obeying  dog,  it  dances. 

Dr.  Levillier,  having  regained  his  feet,  stood  silently 
looking  at  Valentine,  all  his  professional  instinct  wide 
awake  to  note  this  apparent  resurrection  from  the 
dead. 

"You  here,  doctor!"  said  Valentine.  "Why,  what 
does  this  all  mean?  " 

"I  want  you  to  tell  me  that,"  Levillier  said.  "And 
you,"  he  added,  now  turning  towards  Julian. 

But  Julian  was  too  much  excited  to  answer.  His 
eyes  were  blazing  with  joy  and  with  emotion.  And 
Valentine  seemed  still  to  be  informed  with  a  curious, 
serpentine  lassitude.  The  life  seemed  to  be  only  very 
gently  running  again  over  his  body,  creeping  from  the 
centre,    from   the  heart,  to  the  extremities,    gradually 


86  FLAMES 

growing  in  the  eyes,  stronger  and  stronger,  a  dawn  of 
life  in  a  full-grown  man.  Dr.  Levillier  had  never  seen 
anything  quite  like  it  before.-  There  was  something 
violently  unnatural  about  it^  he  thought,  yet  he  could 
not  say  what.  He  could  only  stand  by  the  broad  couch, 
'ascinated  by  the  spectacle  under  his  gaze.  Once  he 
had  read  a  tale  of  the  revivifying  of  a  mummy  in  a 
museum.  That  might  have  been  like  this;  or  the  raising 
of  Lazarus.  The  streams  of  strength  almost  visibly 
trickled  through  Valentine's  veins.  And  this  new  life 
was  so  vigorous,  so  alert.  It  was  as  if  during  his  strange 
sleep  Valentine  had  been  carpentering  his  energies,  pol- 
ishing his  powers,  setting  the  temple  of  his  soul  in  order, 
gaining  almost  a  ruthlessness  from  rest.  He  stretched 
his  limbs  now  as  an  athlete  might  stretch  them  to  win 
the  full  consciousness  of  their  muscular  force.  When 
the  doctor  took  hold  of  his  hand  to  feel  his  pulse  the 
hand  was  hard  and  tense  like  iron,  the  fingers  gripped 
for  a  moment  like  thin  bands  of  steel,  and  the  life  in  the 
blue  eyes  bounded,  raced,  swirled  as  water  swirls  in  a 
mill-stream.  Indeed,  Dr.  Levillier  felt  as  if  there  was 
too  much  life  in  them,  as  if  the  cup  had  been  filled  with 
wine  until  the  wine  ran  over.  He  put  his  fingers  on  the 
pulse.  It  was  strong  and  rapid  and  did  not  fluctuate, 
but  beat  steadily.  He  felt  the  heart.  That,  too, 
throbbed  strongly.  And  while  he  made  his  examination 
Valentine  smiled  at  him. 

"I  'm  all  right,  you  see,"  Valentine  said. 

"All  right, "  the  doctor  echoed,  still  possessed  by  the 
feeling  that  there  lurked  almost  a  danger  in  this  ap- 
parently abounding  health. 

"What  was  it  all?"  Julian  asked  eagerly.  "Was  it  a 
trance?" 

"A  trance?"  Valentine  said.     "Yes,  I  suppose  so." 

He  put  his  feet  to  the  floor,  stood  up,  and  again 
stretched  all  his  limbs.  His  eyes  fell  upon  Rip,  who 
was  still  in  the  corner,  huddled  up,  his  teeth  showing, 
his  eyes  almost  starting  out  of  his  head. 

"Rip,"  he  said,  holding  out  his  hand  and  slapping 
his  knee,  "come  here!  Come  along!  Rip!  Rip! 
What 's  the  matter  with  him?  " 


THE   TRANCE  87 

**He  thought  you  were  dead,"  said  Julian.  "Poor 
little  chap.     Rip,  it's  all  right.     Come!" 

But  the  dog  refused  to  be  pacified,  and  still  displayed 
every  symptom  of  angry  fear.  At  last  Valentine,  weary 
of  calling  the  dog,  went  towards  it  and  stooped  to  pick 
it  up.  At  the  downward  movement  of  its  master  the  dog 
shrank  back,  gathered  itself  together,  then  suddenly 
sprang  forward  with  a  harsh  snarl  and  tried  to  fasten  its 
teeth  in  his  face.     Valentine  jumped  back  just  in  time. 

"  He  must  have  gone  mad,"  he  exclaimed.  *'  Julian, 
see  what  you  can  do  with  him." 

Curiously  enough,  Rip  welcomed  Julian's  advances 
with  avidity,  nestled  into  his  arms,  but  when  he  walked 
toward  Valentine,  struggled  to  escape  and  trembled  in 
every  limb. 

"How  extraordinary!"  Julian  said.  "Since  your 
trance  he  seems  to  have  taken  a  violent  dislike  to  you. 
What  can  it  mean?  " 

"  Oh,  nothing  probably.  He  will  get  over  it.  Put 
him  into  the  other  room." 

Julian  did  so  and  returned. 

Doctor  Levillier  was  now  sitting  in  an  arm-chair.  His 
light,  kind  eyes  were  fixed  on  Valentine  with  a  scrutiny 
so  intense  as  to  render  the  expression  of  his  usually 
gentle  face  almost  stern.  But  Valentine  appeared  quite 
unconscious  of  his  gaze  and  mainly  attentive  to  all  that 
Julian  said  and  did.  All  this  time  the  doctor  had  not 
said  a  word.     Now  he  spoke. 

"You  spoke  of  a  trance?"  he  said,  interrogatively. 

Julian  looked  as  guilty  as  a  cribbing  schoolboy  dis- 
covered in  his  dingy  act. 

"  Doctor,  Val  and  I  have  to  crawl  to  you  for  forgive- 
ness," he  said. 

"To  me— why?" 

"We  have  disobeyed  you." 

"But  I  should  never  give  you  an  order." 

"Your  advice  is  a  command  to  those  who  know  you, 
doctor,"  said  Valentine,  with  a  sudden  laugh. 

"  And  what  advice  of  mine  have  you  put  in  the  corner 
with  its  face  to  the  wall? " 

"We  have  been  table-turning  again." 


88  FLAMES 

"Ah!" 

Doctor  Levillier  formed  his  lips  into  the  shape  as- 
sumed by  one  whistling. 

"  And  this  has  been  the  result?  " 

"Yes,"  Julian  cried.  "Never,  as  long  as  I  live,  will 
I  sit  again.    Val,  if  you  go  down  on  your  knees  to  me — " 

"I  shall  not  do  that,"  Valentine  quietly  interposed. 
"  I  have  no  desire  to  sit  again  now." 

"You  both  seem  set  against  such  dangerous  folly  at 
last,"  said  the  doctor.  "Give  me  your  solemn  promise 
to  stick  to  what  you  have  said." 

And  the  two  young  men  gave  it,  Julian  with  a  strong 
gravity,  Valentine  with  a  light  smile.  Julian  had  by  no 
means  recovered  his  usual  gaiety.  The  events  of  the 
night  had  seriously  affected  him.  He  was  excited  and 
emotional,  and  now  he  grasped  Valentine  by  the  arm  as 
he  exclaimed: 

"Valentine,  tell  me,  what  made  you  give  that  strange 
cry  just  before  you  went  into  your  trance?  Were  you 
frightened?  or  did  something — that  hand — touch  you? 
Or  what  was  it?  " 

"A  cry?" 

"Yes." 

"It  was  not  I." 

"Did  n't  you  hear  it?" 

"No." 

Julian  turned  to  the  doctor. 

"It  was  an  unearthly  sound,"  he  said.  "Like  noth- 
ing I  have  ever  heard  or  imagined.  And,  doctor,  just 
afterward  I  saw  something,  something  that  made  me 
believe  Valentine  was  really  dead." 

"What  was  it?" 

Julian  hesitated.  Then  he  avoided  directly  replying 
to  the  question. 

"Doctor,"  he  said,  "of  course  I  need  n't  ask  you  if 
you  have  often  been  at  deathbeds?  " 

"I  have.     Very  often,"  Levillier  replied. 

"I  have  never  seen  any  one  die,"  Julian  continued, 
still  with  excitement.  "  But  people  have  told  me,  people 
who  have  watched  by  the  dying,  that  at  the  moment 
of  death  sometimes  a  tiny  flame,  a  sort  of  shadow  almost, 


THE   TRANCE  89 

comes  from  the  lips  of  the  corpse  and  evaporates  into 
the  air.  And  they  say  that  flame  is  the  soul  going  out 
of  the  body." 

"  I  have  never  seen  that,"  Levillier  said.  "And  I 
have  watched  many  deaths." 

"I  saw  such  a  flame  to-night,"  Julian  said,  "After 
I  heard  the  cry,  I  distinctly  saw  a  flame  come  from 
where  Valentine  was  sitting  and  float  up  and  disappear 
in  the  darkness.  And — and  afterwards,  when  Valentine 
lay  so  still  and  cold,  I  grew  to  believe  that  flame  was  his 
soul  and  that  I  had  actually  seen  him  die  in  the  dark." 

"  Imagination,"  Valentine  said,  rather  abruptly.  "All 
imagination.     Was  n't  it,  doctor?" 

"Probably,"  Levillier  said.  "Darkness  certainly 
makes  things  visible  that  do  not  exist.  I  have  patients 
who  are  perfectly  sane,  yet  whom  I  forbid  ever  to  be 
entirely  in  the  dark.  Remove  all  objects  from  their 
sight,  and  they  immediately  see  non-existent  things." 

"You  think  that  flame  came  only  from  my  inner  con- 
sciousness? "  Julian  asked. 

"I  suspect  so.      Shut  your  eyes  now." 

Julian  did  so.  Doctor  Levillier  bent  over  and  pressed 
his  two  forefingers  hard  on  Julian's  eyes.  After  a 
moment, 

"  What  do  you  see?"  he  asked. 

"Nothing,"  Julian  replied. 

"Wait  a  little  longer.      Now  what  do  you  see?" 

"Now  I  see  a  broad  ring  of  yellow  light  edged  with 
ragged  purple." 

"  Exactly.     You  see  flame-colour." 

He  removed  his  fingers  and  Julian  opened  his  eyes. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "  But  that  cry.  I  most  distinctly 
heard  it." 

"  Imitate  it." 

"That  would  be  impossible.  It  was  too  strange.  Are 
the  ears  affected  by  darkness?" 

"  The  sense  of  hearing  is  intimately  affected  by  sus- 
pense. If  you  do  not  listen  attentively  you  may  fail  to 
hear  a  sound  that  is.  If  you  listen  too  attentively  you 
may  succeed  in  hearing  a  sound  that  is  not.  Now,  shut 
your  eyes  again." 


90  FLAMES 

Julian  obeyed. 

*'  I  am  going  to  clap  my  hands  presently,"  said  the 
doctor.      "Tell  me  as  soon  as  you  have  heard  me  do  so. " 

"Yes." 

Doctor  Levillier  made  no  movement  for  some  time. 
Then  he  softly  leant  forward,  extended  his  arms  in  the 
air,  and  made  the  motion  of  clapping  his  hands  close  to 
Julian's  face.  In  reality  he  did  not  touch  one  hand  with 
the  other,  yet  Julian  cried  out: 

"  I  heard  you  clap  them  then." 

"I  have  not  clapped  them  at  all,"  Levillier  said. 

Julian  expressed  extreme  surprise. 

"You  see  how  very  easy  it  is  for  the  senses  to  be 
deceived,"  the  doctor  added.  "Once  stir  the  nervous 
system  into  an  acute  state  of  anticipation,  and  it  will 
conjure  up  for  you  a  veritable  panorama  of  sights,  sounds, 
bodily  sensations.  But  throw  it  into  that  state  once  too 
often,  and  the  panorama,  instead  of  passing  and  disap- 
pearing, may  remain  fixed  for  a  time,  even  forever, 
before  your  eyes,  your  ears,  your  touch.  And  that  means 
recurrent  or  permanent  madness.  Valentine,  I  desire 
you  most  especially  to  remember  that." 

He  uttered  the  words  weightily,  with  very  definite 
intention.  Valentine,  who  still  seemed  to  be  in  an  un- 
usually lazy  or  careless  mood,  laughed  easily. 

"  I  will  remember,"  he  said. 

He  yawned. 

"  My  trance  has  made  me  sleepy,"  he  added. 

The  doctor  got  up. 

"Yes;  bed  is  the  best  place  for  you,"  he  said. 

"And  for  us  all,  I  suppose,"  added  Julian.  "Though 
I  feel  as  if  I  could  never  sleep  again." 

The  doctor  went  out  into  the  hall  to  get  his  coat, 
leaving  the  friends  alone  for  a  moment. 

"  I  am  still  so  excited,"  Julian  went  on.  "  Dear  old 
fellow!  How  good  it  is  to  see  you  yourself  again.  I 
made  up  my  mind  that  you  were  dead.  This  is  like  a 
resurrection.     Oh,  Val,  if  you  had  been  dead,  really!  " 

"What  would  you  have  done?  " 

"Done!  I  don't  know.  Gone  to  the  devil,  prob- 
ably." 


THE   TRANCE  91 

'*  Do  you  know  where  to  find  him?  " 

"  My  dear  boy,  he  is  in  every  London  street,  to  begin 
with." 

"In  Victoria  Street,  even.     I  was  only  laughing." 

*'  But  tell  me,  what  did  you  feel?  " 

*'  Nothing.     As  if  I  slept." 

"  And  you  really  heard,  saw,  nothing?  " 

"Nothing." 

"And  that  hand?" 

Valentine  smiled  again,  and  seemed  to  hesitate.  But 
then  he  replied,  quietly: 

"I  told  you  I  could  not  feel  it." 

"  I  did,  until  I  heard  that  dreadful  cry,  and  then  it 
was  suddenly  drawn  away  from  me." 

Doctor  Levillier  appeared  in  the  doorway  with  his 
overcoat  on,  but  Julian  did  not  notice  him.  Again  his 
excitement  was  rising.  He  began  to  pace  up  and  down 
the  room. 

"  My  God!  "  he  said,  vehemently,  "  what  would  Marr 
say  to  all  this?  What  does  it  mean?  What  can  it 
mean?  " 

"  Do  n't  let  us  bother  too  much  about  it." 

"Excellent  advice,"  said  Levillier,  from  the  door- 
way. 

Julian  stood  still. 

"  Doctor,  I  can  understand  your  attitude,"  he  said. 
"But  what  an  amazing  being  you  are,  Val.  You  are  as 
calm  and  collected  as  if  you  had  sat  and  held  converse 
with  spirits  all  through  your  life.  And  yet  something 
has  governed  you,  has  temporarily  deprived  you  of  life. 
For  you  were  to  all  intents  and  purposes  dead  while  you 
were  in  that  trance." 

"Death  is  simply  nothing,  and  nothingness  does  not 
excite  or  terrify  one.  I  never  felt  better  than  I  do  at 
this  moment." 

"That's  well,"  said  Levillier,  cheerfully. 

Julian  regarded  Valentine's  pure,  beautiful  face  with 
astonishment. 

"  And  you  never  looked  better." 

"  I  shall  sleep  exquisitely  to-night,  or  rather  this 
morning,"  Valentine  said. 


93  FLAMES 

As  he  spoke  he  drew  away  the  heavy  green  curtain 
that  hung  across  the  window.  A  very  pale  shaft  of  light 
stole  in  and  lit  up  his  white  face. 

It  was  the  dawn,  and,  standing  there,  he  looked  like 
the  spirit  of  the  dawn,  painted  against  the  dying  night  in 
such  pale  colours,  white,  blue,  and  shadowy  gold,  a 
wonder  of  death  and  of  life. 

In  the  silence  Dr.  Levillier  and  Julian  gazed  at  him, 
and  he  seemed  a  mystery  to  them  both,  a  strange  enigma 
of  purity  and  of  unearthliness. 

"  Good-bye,  Cresswell,"  Levillier  said  at  last. 

"Good-bye,  doctor." 

"Good-bye,  Valentine." 

Julian  held  out  his  hand  to  grasp  his  friend's,  but 
Valentine  began  looping  up  the  curtain  and  did  not  take 
it.     In  his  gentlest  voice  he  said  to  Julian: 

"  Good-bye,  dear  Julian,  good-bye.  The  dawn  is  on 
our  friendship,  Julian." 

"Yes,  Valentine." 

Valentine  added,  after  a  moment  of  apparent  re- 
flection : 

"  Take  Rip  away  with  you  just  for  to-night.  I  do  n't 
want  to  be  bitten  in  my  sleep." 

And  when  Julian  went  away,  the  little  dog  eagerly  fol- 
lowed him,  pressing  close  to  his  heels,  so  close  that 
several  times  Julian  could  not  avoid  kicking  him. 

As  soon  as  the  flat  door  had  closed  on  his  two  friends, 
Valentine  walked  down  the  passage  to  the  drawing-room, 
which  was  shrouded  in  darkness.  He  entered  it  with- 
out turning  on  the  light,  and  closed  the  door  behind 
him.  He  remained  in  the  room  for  perhaps  a  quarter  of 
an  hour.  At  length  the  door  opened  again.  He  emerged 
out  of  the  blackness.  There  was  a  calm  smile  on  his 
face.  Two  of  his  fingers  were  stained  with  blood,  and 
to  one  a  fragment  of  painted  canvas  adhered. 

When  Valentine's  man-servant  went  into  the  room  in 
the  morning  and  drew  up  the  blinds,  he  found,  to  his 
horror,  the  picture  of  "The  Merciful  Knight"  lying 
upon  the  floor.  The  canvas  hung  from  the  gold  frame 
in  shreds,  as  if  rats  had  been  gnawing  it. 


CHAPTER    II 

THE  PICCADILLY  EPISODE 

Doctor  Levillier  and  Julian  bade  each  other  good-bye 
on  the  doorstep.  The  doctor  hailed  a  hansom,  but 
Julian  preferred  to  walk.  He  wished  to  be  alone,  to  feel 
the  cold  touch  of  the  air  on  his  face.  The  dawn  was 
indeed  just  breaking,  ever  so  wearily.  A  strong  wind 
came  up  with  it  over  the  housetops,  and  Victoria  Street 
looked  dreary  in  the  faint,  dusky,  grey  light,  which  grew 
as  slowly  in  the  cloudy  sky  as  hope  in  a  long-starved  heart. 
Julian  lived  in  Mayfair,  and  he  now  walked  forward  slowly 
towards  Grosvenor  Place,  making  a  deliberate  detour 
for  the  sake  of  exercising  his  limbs.  He  was  glad  to  be 
out  under  the  sky,  glad  to  feel  the  breeze  on  his  face, 
and  to  be  free  from  the  horror  of  that  little  room  in  which 
he  had  kept  so  appalling  a  vigil.  The  dull  lines  of  the 
houses  stretching  away  through  the  foggy  perspective 
were  gracious  to  his  eyes.  His  feet  welcomed  the  hard 
fibre  of  the  pavement.  They  had  learned  in  that  night 
almost  to  shudder  at  the  softness  of  a  thick  carpet.  And 
all  his  senses  began  to  come  out  of  their  bondage  and  to 
renew  their  normal  sanity.  Only  now  did  Julian  realize 
how  strenuous  that  bondage  had  been,  a  veritable 
slavery  of  the  soul.  Such  a  slavery  could  surely  only 
have  been  possible  within  the  four  walls  of  a  building. 
An  artificial  environment  must  be  necessary  to  such  an 
artificial  condition  of  feeling.  For  Julian  now  gradually 
began  to  believe  that  Dr.  Levillier  was  right,  and  that 
he  had  somehow  allowed  himself  to  become  unnaturally 
affected  and  strung  up.  He  could  believe  this  in  the  air 
and  in  the  dawn.  For  he  escaped  out  of  prison  as  he 
walked,  and  heard  the  dirty  sparrows  begin  to  twitter  as 
they  sank  to  the  brown  puddles  in  the  roadway,  or  soared 

93 


94  FLAMES 

to  the  soot  that  clung  round  the  chimneys  which  they 
loved.  ^ 

And  yet  he  had  been  communing  with  death,  had  for 
the  first  time  completely  realized  the  fact  and  the  meaning 
of  death.  What  a  demon  of  the  world  it  was,  sly,  bitter, 
chuckling  at  its  power,  the  one  thing,  surely,  that  has 
perfect  enjoyment  of  all  the  things  in  the  scheme  of  the 
earth.  What  a  trick  it  had  played  on  Julian  and  on  Valen- 
tine. What  a  trick!  And  as  this  idea  struck  into  Julian's 
mind  he  found  himself  on  the  pavement  by  the  chemist's 
shop  that  is  opposite  to  the  underground  railway  station 
of  Victoria,  His  eyes  fell  on  the  hutch  of  the  boy-mes- 
sengers, and  he  beheld  through  the  glass  shutter  three 
heads.  He  crossed  the  road  and  tapped  on  the  glass. 
A  young  man  pulled  it  up. 

"Want  to  send  a  message,  sir?" 

"No.  I  wish  to  speak  to  one  of  your  boys,  if  the 
one  I  mean  is  here.     Ah,  there  he  is.** 

Julian  pointed  to  his  little  Hermes  of  the  midnight, 
who  was  crouched  within,  uneasily  sleeping,  his  chin 
nestling  wearily  among  the  medals  which  his  exemplary 
conduct  had  won  for  him.  The  young  man  shook  the 
child  by  the  shoulder. 

*' Hulloh,  Bob!"  he  yelled.  "Here's  a  gentleman 
wants  to  speak  to  yer. " 

Bob  came  from  his  dreams  with  a  jerk,  and  stared 
upon  Julian  with  his  big  brown  eyes.  Presently  he 
began  to  realize  matters. 

"Want  another  doctor,  sir?  It  ain't  no  manner  of 
good,"  he  remarked  airily,  beginning  to  search  for  his 
cap,  and  to  glow  in  the  prospect  of  another  cab-ride. 

"No,"  said  Julian.  "  I  stopped  to  tell  you  that  you 
were  wrong.     The  gentleman  is  quite  well  again." 

He  put  his  hand  into  his  pocket  and  produced  half  a 
crown. 

"  There  's  something  for  your  mistake,"  he  said. 

Bob  took  it  solemnly,  and,  as  Julian  walked  on, 
called  after  him: 

"It  wasn't  my  fault,  sir;  it  was  father's." 

He  had  more  desire  to  shine  as  an  intellectual  author- 
ity on  great  matters  of  dissolution  than  to  respect  the 


THE   PICCADILLY   EPISODE  95 

departed,  Julian  could  not  help  smiling  at  the  child's 
evident  discomfiture  as  he  pursued  his  way  towards 
Grosvenor  Place.  On  one  of  the  doorsteps  of  the  big 
houses  that  drive  respect  like  a  sharp  nail  into  the  hearts 
of  the  poor  passers-by,  a  ragged  old  woman  was  tumultu- 
ously  squatting.  Her  gin-soddened  face  came,  like  a 
scarlet  cloud,  to  the  view  from  the  embrace  of  a  vaga- 
bond black  bonnet,  braided  with  rags,  viciously  glitter- 
ing here  and  there  with  the  stray  bugles  which  survived 
from  some  bygone  era  of  comparative  respectability. 
Her  penetrating  snores  denoted  that  she  was  oblivious 
of  the  lounging  approach  of  the  policeman,  whose  blue 
and  burly  form  was  visible  in  the  extreme  distance. 
Julian  stopped  to  observe  her  reflectively.  His  eye, 
which  loved  the  grotesque,  was  pleased  by  the  bedrag- 
glement  of  her  attitude,  by  the  flat  foot,  in  its  bursting 
boot,  which  protruded  from  the  ocean  of  her  mud- 
stained  petticoats,  by  the  wisps  of  coarse  hair  wander- 
ing in  the  breeze  above  her  brazen  wrinkles.  Poor  soul! 
she  kept  a  diary  of  her  deeds,  even  though  she  could 
perhaps  only  make  a  mark  where  her  signature  should 
have  been.  Julian  stared  at  her  very  intently,  and  as 
he  did  so  he  started  violently,  for  across  the  human 
background  which  her  sleeping  dissipation  supplied 
there  seemed  to  float  the  vague  shadow,  suggestion,  call 
it  what  you  will,  of  a  tongue  of  flame. 

He  walked  hastily  on,  angrily  blaming  his  nerves. 
As  he  passed  the  policeman  he  fancied  he  noticed  that 
the  man  glanced  at  him  with  a  certain  flickering 
suspicion.  Was  horror  legibly  written  in  his  face?  he 
wondered  uneasily,  confessing  to  himself  that  even  in 
the  dawn  and  the  lap  of  Grosvenor  Place  a  horror  had 
again  seized  him.  What  did  this  shadow  which  he  had 
now  twice  seen  portend?  Surely  his  nerves  were  not 
permanently  upset.  He  was  at  first  heartily  ashamed  of 
himself.  Near  St.  George's  Hospital,  gaunt  and  grey  in 
the  morning,  he  stopped  again,  bent  his  left  arm  forcibly, 
and  with  his  right  hand  felt  the  hard  lump  of  muscle 
that  sprang  up  like  a  ball  of  iron  under  his  coat  sleeve. 
And  as  he  felt  it  he  cursed  himself  for  the  greatest  of  all 
fools.     Thin,  meagre  little  men  of  the  town,  tea-party 


96  FLAMES 

men  whose  thoughts  were  ever  on  their  ties  and  their 
moustaches,  no  doubt  gave  themselves  up  readily  to 
disturbances  of  the  nerves.  But  Julian  had  always 
prided  himself  on  being  an  athlete,  able  to  hold  his  own 
in  the  world  by  mere  muscular  force,  if  need  be.  He 
had  found  it  possible  to  develop  side  by  side  brain  and 
biceps,  each  to  an  adequate  end.  It  had  seemed  grand 
to  him  to  hold  these  scales  of  his  being  evenly,  to  bal- 
ance them  to  a  hair.  Those  scales  hung  badly  now, 
lopsidedly.  One  was  up  in  the  clouds.  He  resolved 
that  the  other  should  correct  it.  After  a  cold  bath  and 
a  sleep  he  would  go  round  to  Angelo's  and  have  an  hour's 
hard  fencing.  Cold  water,  the  Englishman's  panacea 
for  every  ill,  cold  steel,  the  pioneer's  Minerva,  would 
tonic  this  errant  brain  of  his  and  drill  it  into  its  custom- 
ary obedience.     So  he  said  to  himself. 

And  yet  as  he  walked  there  came  to  him  a  notion  that 
this  little  shadow  of  a  flame  was  still  his  companion; 
that  this  night  just  passed,  this  day  just  begun,  were  the 
birthnight  and  the  birthday  of  this  small,  ghostlike  thing 
which  had  come  into  being  to  bear  him  company,  to 
haunt  him.  Yes,  as  he  walked,  followed  always  closely 
by  Rip,  and  saw  the  tall  iron  gates  of  the  Park,  Apsley 
House,  the  long  line  of  Piccadilly,  all  uncertain,  gentle, 
reduced  to  a  whimsical  mildness  of  aspect  in  the  half- 
light  of  the  dawning,  he  again  recalled  the  fact,  which 
he  had  mentioned  that  night  to  Doctor  Levillier,  of  peo- 
ple watching  an  invalid  who  had  seen,  at  the  precise 
moment  of  dissolution,  the  soul  escaping  furtively  from 
its  fleshy  prison  like  a  flame,  which  was  immediately  lost 
in  the  air.  Surely,  wandering  souls,  if  indeed  there 
were  such  things,  might  still  retain  this  faint  semblance 
of  a  shape,  a  form.  And  if  so,  they  might  perhaps 
occasionally  conceive  a  fantastic  attachment  to  a  human 
being,  and  companion  him  silently  as  the  dog  com- 
panions his  master.  He  might  have  such  a  companion, 
whose  nature  he  could  not  comprehend,  whose  object  in 
seeking  him  out  he  could  not  guess.  Perhaps  it  felt 
affection  toward  him;  perhaps,  on  the  other  hand, 
enmity.  A  lover,  or  a  spy — it  might  be  either.  Or  it 
might  have  no  definite  purpose,  but  simply  drift  near 


THE   PICCADILLY   EPISODE  97 

him  in  the  air,  as  some  human  beings  drift  feebly  along 
together  through  life,  because  they  have  long  ago  loved 
each  other,  or  thought  each  other  useful,  or  fancied,  in 
some  moment  of  madness,  that  God  meant  them  for  each 
other.  It  might  be  an  aimless,  dreary  soul,  unable  to 
be  gone  from  sheer  dulness  of  purpose — a  soul  without 
temperament,  without  character. 

As  this  thought  crossed  Julian's  mind  he  happened 
to  glance  at  the  front  of  a  shop  on  his  left,  and  against 
the  iron  shutters  the  flame  was  dimly  but  distinctly  out- 
lined. He  stopped  at  once  to  look  at  it,  but  even  as  he 
stopped  it  was  gone.  Then  he  sternly  brought  himself 
back  from  the  vague  regions  of  fancy,  and  was  angry 
that  he  had  permitted  himself  to  wander  in  them  like  a 
child  lost  in  the  forest.  He  bent  down  and  patted  Rip, 
and  sought  to  wrench  his  mind  from  its  wayward  course, 
and  to  thrust  it  forcibly  into  its  accustomed  groove  of 
healthy  sanity.  Yet  sanity  seemed  to  become  abruptly 
commonplace,  a  sort  of  whining  crossing-sweeper,  chat- 
tering untimely,  meaningless  phrases  to  him.  To  divert 
himself  entirely  he  paused  beside  a  peripatetic  coffee- 
stall,  presided  over  by  a  grey-faced,  prematurely  old 
youth,  with  sharp  features  and  the  glancing  eyes  of  pov- 
erty-stricken avarice. 

"Give  me  a  cup  of  coffee,"  he  said. 

The  youth  clattered  his  wares  in  excited  obedience. 

While  he  was  pouring  out  the  steaming  liquid  there 
drifted  down  to  Julian  through  the  grey  weariness  of 
the  morning  a  painted  girl  of  the  streets,  crowned  with 
a  large  hat,  on  which  a  forest  of  feathers  waved  in  the 
weak  and  chilly  breeze.  Julian  glanced  at  her  idly 
enough  and  she  glanced  back  at  him.  Horror,  he 
thought,  looked  from  her  eyes  as  if  from  a  window.  As 
she  returned  his  gaze  she  hovered  near  him  in  the 
peculiar  desultory  way  of  such  women,  and  Julian,  glad 
of  any  distraction,  offered  her  a  cup  of  coffee.  She  drew 
nearer  and  accepted  it. 

"And  a  bun,  my  dear,"  she  hinted  to  the  sharp-fea- 
tured youth. 

"  And  a  bun,"  echoed  Julian,  seeing  his  doubtful  pause 
of  hesitation. 


98  FLAMES 

The  bun  came  into  view  from  a  hidden  basket,  and 
the  meal  began,  Julian,  Rip,  and  the  lady  of  the  feathers 
forming  a  companionable  group  upon  the  kerb.  The 
lady's  curious  and  almost  thrilling  expression,  which  had 
seemed  to  beacon  from  some  height  of  her  soul  some 
exceptional  and  dreary  deed,  faded  under  the  influence 
of  the  dough  and  currants.  A  smile  overspread  her  thin 
features.     She  examined  Julian  with  a  gracious  interest. 

"  It 's  easy  to  see  you  've  been  makin'  a  night  of  it, 
Bertie,"  she  remarked  casually  at  length,  in  the  suffo- 
cated voice  of  one  divided  between  desire  of  conversa- 
tion and  love  of  food. 

"  You  think  so  ?  "  said  Julian. 

"Think  so,  dear,  I  'm  sure  so!  Ask  me  another  as  I 
</(3«7know;  do  darlin'.  " 

Julian  took  another  draught  from  the  thick  coffee-cup 
that  held  so  amazingly  little. 

"And  what  about  yourself  ?"  he  said.  "Why  are 
you  out  here  so  early  ?  " 

The  lady  of  the  feathers  cast  a  suspicious  glance  upon 
him.     Then  the  horror  dawned  again  in  her  eyes. 

"I  'm  afraid  to  go  home,"  she  said.  "Yes,  that 's  a 
fact." 

"Afraid  —  why?"  Julian  spoke  abstractedly.  In 
truth  he  merely  talked  to  this  floating  wisp  of  humanity 
to  distract  his  mind,  and  thought  of  her  as  a  strange 
female  David  of  the  streets  sent  to  make  a  cockney  music 
in  his  ears  that  his  soul  might  be  rid  of  its  evil  spirit. 

"Never  you  mind  why,"  the  lady  answered. 

She  shivered  suddenly,  violently,  as  a  dog  just  come 
out  of  water. 

"  Have  another  cup  ?  "  Julian  said. 

"And  a  bun,  dearie,"  the  lady  again  rejoined.  She 
shook  her  head  till  all  the  feathers  danced. 

"Never  you  mind  why,"  she  said,  reverting  again  to 
his  vagrant  question.  "There  's  some  things  as  do  n't 
do  to  talk  about." 

"I'm  sure  I've  no  wish  to  pry  into  your  private 
affairs,"  Julian  rejoined  carelessly. 

But  again  he  noticed  the  worn  terror  of  her  face. 
Surely  that  night  she,   too,    had  passed  through  some 


THE   PICCADILLY    EPISODE  99 

unwonted  experience,  which  had  written  its  sign-manual 
amid  the  paint  and  powder  of  her  shame. 

The  lady  stared  back  at  him.  Beneath  her  tinted 
eyelids  the  fear  seemed  to  grow  like  a  weed.  Tears  fol- 
lowed, rolling  over  her  cheeks  and  mingling  with  the 
coffee  in  her  cup. 

"Oh  dear,"  she  murmured  lamentably.  **  Oh,  dear, 
oh!" 

"What  's  the  matter  ?  "  said  Julian. 

But  she  only  shook  her  head,  with  the  peevish  per- 
sistence of  weak  obstinacy,  and  continued  vaguely  to 
weep  as  one  worn  down  by  chill  circumstance. 

Julian  turned  his  eyes  from  her  to  the  coffee-stall,  in 
which  the  sharp-featured  youth  now  negligently  leant, 
well  satisfied  with  the  custom  he  had  secured.  Behind 
the  youth's  head  it  seemed  to  Julian  that  the  phantom 
flame  hung  trembling,  as  if  blown  by  the  light  wind  of 
the  morning.  He  laid  his  hand  on  the  lady's  left  arm  and 
unconsciously  closed  his  fingers  firmly  over  the  flesh, 
while,  in  a  low  voice,  he  said  to  her: 

"Look  there!" 

The  lady  of  the  feathers  stopped  crying  abruptly,  as 
if  her  tears  were  suddenly  frozen  at  their  source. 

"Where,  dearie?  "  she  said  jerkily.  "Whatever  do 
you  mean? " 

"There  where  the  cups  are  hung  up.  Don't  you 
see  anything?  " 

But  the  lady  was  looking  at  him,  and  she  now  dropped 
her  cup  with  a  crash  to  the  pavement. 

"There's  a  go,"  said  the  sharp-featured  youth. 
"  You  're  a  nice  one,  you  are!  " 

Without  regarding  his  protest,  the  lady  violently 
wrenched  her  arm  from  Julian's  grasp  and  recoiled  from 
the  stall. 

"  Le-go  my  arm,"  she  babbled  hysterically.  "  Le-go, 
I  say.     I  can't  stand  any  more — no,  I  can't." 

"  I  'm  not  going  to  hurt  you,"  said  Julian,  astonished 
at  her  outburst. 

But  she  only  repeated  vehemently: 

"  Let  go,  let  me  go!" 

Backing  away,  she  trod  the  fallen   coffee-cup  to  frag- 


loo  FLAMES 

ments  on  the  pavement,  and  began  to  drift  down  Picca- 
dilly, her  face  under  the  feathers  set  so  completely  round 
over  her  shoulder,  in  observation  of  Julian,  that  she 
seemed  to  be  promenading  backwards.  And  as  she 
went  she  uttered  deplorable  wailing  sounds,  which 
gradually  increased  in  volume.  Apparently  she  con- 
sidered that  her  life  had  been  in  imminent  danger,  and 
that  she  saved  herself  by  shrieks;  for,  still  keeping 
her  face  toward  the  coffee-stall,  she  faded  away  in  the 
morning,  until  only  the  faint  noise  of  her  retreat  be- 
tokened her  existence  any  longer. 

The  sharp-featured  youth  winked  wearily  at  Julian 
from  the  midst  of  his  grove  of  coffee-cups. 

"Nice  things,  women,  sir,"  he  ejaculated.  "Good 
ayngels  the  books  calls  'm.     O  Gawd!  " 

Julian  paid  him  and  walked  away. 

And  as  he  went  he  found  himself  instinctively  watch- 
ing for  the  fleeting  shadow  of  a  flame,  trying  to  perceive 
it  against  the  grey  face  of  a  house,  against  the  trunk  of 
a  tree,  the  dark  green  of  a  seat.  But  the  light  of  the 
mounting  morning  grew  ever  stronger  and  the  flame- 
shaped  shadow  did  not  reappear, 

Julian  reached  his  chambers,  undressed  abstractedly 
and  went  to  bed.  Before  he  fell  asleep  he  looked  at 
Rip  reposing  happily  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  had  a 
moment  of  shooting  wonder  that  the  little  dog  was  so 
completely  comfortable  with  him.  That  it  had  flown  at 
its  master,  who  had  always  been  kind  to  it,  whom  it  had 
always  seemed  to  love  hitherto,  puzzled  Julian. 

But  then  so  many  things  had  puzzed  him  within  the 
last  few  days. 

He  stroked  Rip  with  a  meditative  hand  and  lay  down. 
Soon  his  mind  began  to  wander  in  the  maze  whose  clue 
is  sleep.  He  was  with  Valentine,  with  Doctor  Levillier, 
with  the  sharp-featured  youth  and  the  lady  of  the  feathers. 
They  sat  round  a  table  and  it  was  dark;  yet  he  could 
see.  And  the  lady's  feathers  grew  like  the  beanstalk  of 
Jack  the  Giant-killer  towards  heaven  and  the  land  of 
ogres.  Then  Julian  climbed  up  and  up  till  he  reached 
the  top  of  the  ladder.  And  it  seemed  to  him  that  the 
feather  ladder  ended  in  blue  space  and  in  air,  and  that  far 


THE   PICCADILLY   EPISODE  loi 

away  he  saw  the  outline  of  a  golden  bar.  And  on  this 
bar  two  figures  leaned.  One  seemed  an  angel,  one  a 
devil.  Yet  they  had  faces  that  were  alike,  and  were 
beautiful.     They  faded. 

Julian  seemed  vaguely  to  hear  the  sharp-featured 
youth  say,  "  Good  ayngels!     O  Gawd!  " 

Was  that  the  motto  of  his  sleep? 


CHAPTER  III 

A  DRIVE   IN   THE   RAIN 

When  Julian  returned  from  Angelo's  the  next  morning 
he  found  lying  upon  the  breakfast  table  a  note,  and, 
after  the  custom  of  many  people,  before  opening  it  he 
read  the  address  on  the  envelope  two  or  three  times  and 
considered  who  the  writer  might  be.  It  struck  him  at 
once  that  the  writing  ought  to  be  familiar  to  him  and 
capable  of  instant  identification.  The  name  of  his  cor- 
respondent was  literally  on  the  tip  of  his  mind.  Yet  he 
could  not  utter  it.  And  so  at  last  he  broke  the  seal. 
Before  reading  the  note  he  glanced  at  the  signature: 
'♦Valentine." 

Julian  was  surprised.  He  knew  now  why  he  had 
seemed  to  remember,  yet  had  not  actually  remembered, 
the  handwriting.  Regarding  it  again,  he  found  it  curi- 
ously changed  from  Valentine's  usual  hand,  yet  contain- 
ing many  points  of  resemblance.  After  a  while  he  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  it  was  like  a  bad  photograph  of 
the  original,  imitating,  closely  enough,  all  the  main 
points  of  the  original,  yet  leaving  out  all  the  character, 
all  the  delicacy  of  it.  For  Valentine's  handwriting  had 
always  seemed  to  Julian  to  express  his  nature.  It  was 
rather  large  and  very  clear,  but  delicate,  the  letters 
exquisitely  formed,  the  lines  perfectly  even,  neither 
depressed  nor  slanting  upwards.  This  note  was  surely 
much  more  coarsely  written  than  usual.  And  yet,  of 
course,  it  was  Valentine's  writing.  Julian  wondered  he 
had  not  known.     He  read  the  note  at  last: 

•'  Dear  Julian, 

"  I  am  coming  over  to  see  you  this  afternoon  about  five, 
and  shall  try  and  persuade  Rip  to  restore  me  to  his  confidence.  I 
hope  you  will  be  in.  Are  you  tired  after  last  night's  experiences? 
I  never  felt  better.  Ever  yours, 

"Valentine." 


A   DRIVE   IN   THE   RAIN  103 

*'And  yet,"  Julian  thought,  **I  should  have  guessed 
by  your  writing  that  you  were  in  some  unusual  frame  of 
mind,  either  tired,  or  —  or — "  he  looked  again,  and 
closely,  at  the  writing, —  "  or  in  a  temper  less  delight- 
fully calm  and  seraphic  than  usual.  Yes,  it  looks  actu- 
ally a  bad-tempered  hand.  Valentine's!"  Then  he 
laughed,  and  tossed  the  note  carelessly  into  the  fire  that 
was  crackling  upon  the  hearth.  Rip  lay  by  it,  quietly 
sleeping. 

Punctually  at  five  o'clock  Valentine  appeared.  Rip 
was  still  lying  happily  before  the  fire,  but  directly  the 
dog  caught  sight  of  its  master  all  the  hair  along  the 
middle  of  its  back  bristled  on  end,  and  it  showed  every 
symptom  of  acute  distress  and  fury.  Julian  was  obliged 
to  put  it  out  of  the  room. 

'*  What  can  have  come  over  Rip,  Valentine?  "  he  said, 
as  he  came  back.  "This  sudden  hatred  of  you  is  inex- 
plicable." 

"Absolutely,"  Valentine  answered.  "But  it  is  sure 
to  pass  away.  There  was  something  uncanny  about  that 
trance  of  mine  which  frightened  the  little  beggar." 

"Perhaps.  But  the  oddest  thing  is,  that  while  you 
were  insensible  Rip  lay  with  his  head  upon  your  arm  as 
contented  as  possible.  It  was  only  just  as  you  began  to 
show  signs  of  life  that  he  seemed  to  turn  against  you.  I 
can't  understand  it." 

"  Nor  I.     Have  you  seen  Marr  to-day?  " 

"No.  I  haven't  been  to  the  club.  I  am  so  glad 
you  do  n't  know  him. " 

Valentine  laughed.  He  was  lying  back  in  a  big  chair, 
smoking  a  cigarette.  His  face  was  unclouded  and  serene, 
and  he  had  never  looked  more  entirely  healthy.  Indeed, 
he  appeared  much  more  decisively  robust  than  usual. 
Julian  noticed  this. 

"Your  trance  seems  positively  to  have  done  you 
good,"  he  said. 

"  It  certainly  has  not  done  me  harm.  My  short  death 
of  the  senses  has  rested  me  wonderfully.  I  wonder  if  I 
am  what  is  called  a  medium." 

"I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  you  are,"  Julian  said. 
"But   I  don't  think  I  could  be  surprised  at  anything 


I04  FLAMES 

to-day.  Indeed,  I  have  found  myself  dwelling  with  child- 
ish pleasure  upon  the  most  preposterous  ideas,  hugging 
them  to  my  soul,  determining  to  believe  in  them." 

"Such  as  —  what?" 

"Well,  such  as  this." 

And  then  Julian  told  Valentine  of  his  curious  notion 
that  some  wandering  soul  was  beginning  to  companion 
him,  and  described  how  he  had  thought  he  saw  it  when 
he  was  gazing  at  the  old  woman  in  Grosvenor  Place,  and 
again  when  he  was  with  the  lady  of  the  feathers. 

"  But, "  Valentine  said,  "you  say  you  were  staring 
very  hard  at  the  old  woman?  " 

"Yes." 

"That  might  account  for  the  matter  of  the  first  ap- 
pearance of  the  flame  in  daylight.  If  you  look  very 
steadily  at  some  object,  a  kind  of  slight  mirage  will  often 
intervene  between  you  and  it." 

"Perhaps.  But  I  have  seen  this  shadow  of  a  flame 
when  I  was  not  thinking  of  it  or  expecting  it." 

"When?" 

"  Just  now.  As  you  came  into  the  room  I  saw  it  float 
out  at  that  door." 

"You  are  sure? " 

"I  believe  so.     Yes,  I  am." 

"  But  why  should  this  soul,  if  soul  it  be,  haunt  you?  " 

"I  can't  tell.  Perhaps,  Val,  you  and  I  ought  not  to 
have  played  at  spiritualism  as  we  should  play  at  a  game. 
Perhaps—" 

Julian  paused.     He  was  looking  anxious,  even  worried. 

"Suppose  we  have  not  stopped  in  time,"  he  said. 

Valentine  raised  his  eyebrows. 

"  I  do  n't  understand." 

Julian  was  standing  exactly  opposite  to  him,  leaning 
against  the  mantelpiece  and  looking  down  at  him. 

"  We  ought  never  to  have  sat  again  after  our  conver- 
sation with  the  doctor, ' '  Julian  said.  ' '  I  feel  that  to-day, 
so  strongly.  I  feel  that  perhaps  we  have  taken  just  the 
one  step  too  far, —  the  one  step  in  the  dark  that  may  be 
fatal." 

"Fatal!  My  dear  Julian,  you  are  unstrung  by  the 
events  of  the  night." 


A   DRIVE   IN   THE   RAIN  105 

But  the  calm  of  Valentine's  voice  did  not  seem  to 
sway  Julian.     He  continued: 

"  Valentine,  now  that  I  am  with  you,  I  am  attacked  by 
a  strange  idea." 

"What  is  it?" 

*'  That  last  night  may  have  its  consequences;  yes, even 
though  we  strive  to  forget  it,  and  to  forget  our  sittings. 
If  it  should  be  so!     If  anything — " 

He  was  curiously  upset,  and  did  not  seem  able  to-day 
to  take  the  influence  of  Valentine's  mood.  Indeed,  this 
new  anxiety  of  his  was  only  born  in  Valentine's  presence, 
was  communicated  apparently  by  him. 

"Everything  one  does  has  its  following  conse- 
quence," Julian  said. 

"It  is  the  fashion  to  say  so.  I  do  not  believe  it.  I 
believe,  on  the  contrary,  that  we  often  do  things  with  a 
special  view  to  the  doctrine  of  consequence,  and  that  our 
intentions  are  frustrated  by  the  falseness  of  the  doctrine. 
Suppose  I  kiss  a  woman.  I  may  do  so  with  inten- 
tion to  make  her  love  me,  or,  on  the  other  hand,  to  make 
her  hate  me.  The  chances  are  that  she  does  neither  the 
one  nor  the  other.  She  simply  forgets  all  about  such  a 
trifle,  and  we  go  on  shaking  hands  politely  for  the  rest  of 
our  natural  lives.  Julian,  the  memories  of  most  people 
are  like  winter  days  —  very  short." 

"Perhaps.  But  there  is  some  hidden  thing  in  life 
whose  memory  is  everlasting.  All  the  philosophers  say 
so,  especially  those  who  are  inclined  to  deny  the  Deity. 
They  put  their  faith  in  the  chain  of  cause  and  effect. 
What  we  have  done, —  you  and  I,  Valentine, — must  have 
an  effect  of  some  sort." 

"  It  will  have  a  very  bad  effect  upon  you,  I  can  see," 
said  Valentine,  smiling,  "unless  you  pull  yourself  to- 
gether. Come,  this  is  nonsense.  We  have  sat  once  too 
often,  and  the  consequence  followed,  and  is  over:  I  went 
into  a  trance.  I  have  fortunately  come  out  of  it,  so  the 
penalty  which  you  so  firmly  believe  in  has  been  paid. 
The  score  is  cleared,  Julian." 

"  I  suppose  so." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  of  it.  Let  us  forget  the  whole  mat- 
ter, since  to  remember  it  seems  likely  to  affect  those 


io6  FLAMES 

devils  that  make  the  hell  of  the  physical  man  —  the 
nerves.  Let  us  forget  it.  Where  are  you  dining  to- 
night?" 

"Nowhere  in  particular.  I  have  not  thought  about 
it,"  Julian  said,  rather  listlessly. 

"  Dine  with  me  then." 

"Yes,  Valentine." 

Julian  hesitated,  then  added: 

"But  not  in  Victoria  Street,  if  you  do  n't  mind." 

"  At  the  Savoy  then;  or  shall  we  say  the  Berkeley? " 

"Very  well, —  the  Berkeley." 

"At  eight  o'clock.  Good-bye  till  then.  I  must  ask 
you  to  give  the  shelter  of  your  roof  to  Rip  till  he  re- 
turns to  a  more  reasonable  frame  of  mind  about  me." 

When  Valentine  had  gone  Julian  put  on  his  coat,  and 
walked  down  to  the  club,  ostensibly  to  look  at  the  even- 
ing papers,  really  because  he  had  a  desire  to  see  Marr. 
His  intention,  if  he  did  meet  the  latter,  was  to  question 
him  closely  as  to  the  consequences  which  might  follow 
upon  a  sitting,  or  series  of  sittings,  undertaken  by  two 
people  for  some  reason  unsuited  to  carry  out  such  an  en- 
terprise together.  That  Marr  would  be  in  the  club  he 
felt  no  shadow  of  doubt.  Apparently  the  club  had  for 
Marr  all  the  attraction  that  induces  the  new  member  to 
haunt  the  smoking  and  reading  rooms  of  his  freshly  ac- 
quired home  during  the  first  week  or  two  of  its  posses- 
sion. He  was  incessantly  there,  as  Julian  had  had 
reason  to  know. 

But  to-day  proved  to  be  an  exception.  Julian  ex- 
plored the  club  from  end  to  end  without  finding  the  ob- 
ject of  his  search.     Finally  he  went  to  the  hall-porter. 

"  Is  Mr.  Marr  in  the  club  to-day?  " 

"No,  sir;  he  has  not  been  in  at  all  since  yesterday 
afternoon." 

"Oh,  thanks." 

Julian  felt  strongly,  even  absurdly,  disappointed,  and 
found  himself  wishing  that  he  possessed  Marr's  private 
address.  He  would  certainly  have  called  upon  him. 
However,  he  had  no  idea  where  Marr  lived,  so  there  was 
nothing  to  be  done.  He  went  back  to  his  rooms,  dressed 
for  dinner,  and  was  at  the  Berkeley  by  five  minutes  past 


A   DRIVE    IN   THE   RAIN  107 

eight.  The  restaurant  was  very  crowded  that  night,  but 
Valentine  had  secured  a  table  in  the  window,  and  was 
waiting  when  Julian  arrived.  The  table  next  to  theirs 
was  the  only  one  unoccupied  in  the  room. 

The  two  friends  sat  down  and  began  to  eat  rather 
silently  in  the  midst  of  the  uproar  of  conversation  round 
them.  Valentine  seemed  quite  unconscious  of  the  many 
glances  directed  towards  him.  He  never  succeeded  in 
passing  unnoticed  anywhere,  and  although  he  had  never 
done  anything  remarkable,  was  one  of  the  best-known 
men  in  town  merely  by  virtue  of  his  unusual  person- 
ality. 

"There's  the  Victoria  Street  Saint,"  murmured  a 
pretty  girl  to  her  companion.  "What  a  fortune  that 
man  could  make  on  the  stage." 

"Yes,  or  as  a  pianist,"  responded  the  man,  rather 
enviously.  "His  looks  would  crowd  St.  James's  Hall 
even  if  he  could  n't  play  a  note.  I  never  can  under- 
stand how  Cresswell  manages  to  have  such  a  complexion 
in  London.  He  must  take  precious  good  care  of  him- 
self." 

"  Saints  generally  do.  You  see,  we  live  for  time,  they 
for  eternity.  We  only  have  to  keep  the  wrinkles  at  bay 
for  a  few  years,  but  they  want  to  look  nice  on  the  Judg- 
ment Day." 

She  was  a  little  actress,  and  at  this  point  she  laughed 
to  indicate  that  she  had  said  something  smart.  As  her 
laugh  was  dutifully  echoed  by  the  man  who  was  paying 
for  the  dinner,  she  felt  deliciously  clever  for  the  rest  of 
the  evening. 

Presently  Julian  said: 

"I  went  to  the  club  this  afternoon." 

"Did  you?" 

"Yes.  I  wanted  to  have  a  talk  with  that  fellow 
Marr." 

Valentine  suddenly  put  down  the  glass  of  champagne 
which  he  was  in  the  act  of  raising  to  his  lips. 

"But  surely,"  he  began,  with  some  appearance  of 
haste.  Then  he  seemed  to  check  himself,  and  finished 
calmly: 

"You  found  him,  I  suppose?  " 


io8  FLAMES 

*'No." 

"  I  thought  he  was  perpetually  there,  apparently  on 
the  lookout  for  you." 

"Yes,  but  to-day  he  had  n't  been  in  at  all.  Perhaps 
he  has  gone  out  of  town." 

"Ah,   probably." 

At  this  moment  two  men  entered  the  restaurant  and 
strolled  towards  the  table  next  to  that  at  which  Valen- 
tine and  Julian  sat.  One  of  them  knew  Julian  and 
nodded  as  he  passed.  He  was  just  on  the  point  of  sit- 
ting down  and  unfolding  his  napkin  when  a  sudden 
thought  seemed  to  strike  him,  and  he  came  over  and 
said  to  Julian: 

"You  remember  that  dinner  at  Lady  Crichton's, 
where  we  met  the  other  night?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Startling  bit  of  news  to-night,  was  n't  it?  Damned 
sudden! " 

Julian  looked  puzzled. 

"What — is  Lady  Crichton  ill,  then?" 

"Lady  Crichton!  No.  I  meant  about  that  poor  fel- 
low, Marr. " 

Julian  swung  round  in  his  seat  and  regarded  the  man 
full  in  the  face. 

"  Marr!    Why,  what  is  it?    Has  he  had  an  accident?" 

"Dead!  "  the  other  man  said  laconically,  arranging 
the  gardenia  in  his  coat,  and  taking  a  comprehensive 
survey  of  the  room. 

"Dead!"  Julian  repeated,  without  expression. 
"Dead!" 

"Yes.     Well,  bye-bye.     Going  on  to  the  Empire!  " 

He  turned  to  go,  but  Julian  caught  his  arm. 

"Wait  a  moment.     When  did  he  die?  " 

"Last  night.  In  the  dead  of  the  night,  or  in  the 
early  morning. " 

"What  of?" 

"  They  do  n't  know.  There  's  going  to  be  an  inquest. 
The  poor  chap  did  n't  die  at  home,  but  in  a  private  hotel, 
in  the  Euston  Road,  the  '  European.'  He  's  lying  there 
now.  Funny  sort  of  chap,  but  not  bad  in  his  way.  I 
expect — " 


A   DRIVE    IN   THE    RAIN  109 

Here  the  man  bent  down  and  murmured  something 
into  Julian's  ear. 

"Well,  see  you  again  presently.  *  In  the  midst  of 
life,'  eh?" 

He  lounged  away  and  began  applying  his  intellect  to 
the  dissection  of  a  sardine. 

Julian  turned  round  in  his  chair  and  again  faced  Val- 
entine. But  he  did  not  go  on  eating  the  cutlet  in  aspic 
that  lay  upon  his  plate.  He  sat  looking  at  Valentine, 
and  at  last  said: 

"  How  horribly  sudden!  " 

*' Yes, "  Valentine  answered  sympathetically.  **He 
must  have  had  a  weak  heart." 

**I  dare  say.  I  suppose  so.  Valentine,  I  can't  real- 
lize  it." 

'*  It  must  be  difficult.  A  man  whom  you  saw  so  re- 
cently, and  I  suppose  apparently  quite  well." 

"Quite.     Absolutely." 

Julian  sat  silent  again  and  allowed  the  waiter  to  take 
away  his  plate  with  the  untouched  cutlet. 

*'  I  did  n't  like  the  man,"  he  began  at  last.  "  But  still 
I  *m  sorry,  damned  sorry,  about  this.  I  wanted  to  see 
him  again.  He  was  an  awfully  interesting  fellow,  Val; 
and,  as  I  told  you,  might,  I  believe,  in  time  have  gained 
a  sort  of  influence  over  me, — not  like  yours,  of  course, 
but  he  certainly  had  a  power,  a  strength,  about  him,  even 
a  kind  of  fascination.  He  was  not  like  other  people. 
Ah — "  and  he  exclaimed  impatiently,  "I  wish  you  had 
met  him." 

"Why^" 

"  I  scarcely  know.  But  I  should  like  you  to  have  had 
the  experience.  And  then,  you  are  so  intuitive  about 
people,  you  might  have  read  him.  I  could  not.  And 
he  was  a  fellow  worth  reading,  that  I  'm  certain  of.  No, 
I  won't  have  any  mutton.  I  seem  to  have  lost  my  appe- 
tite over  this." 

Valentine  calmly  continued  his  dinner,  while  Julian 
talked  on  about  Marr  rather  excitedly.  When  they  were 
having  coffee  Valentine  said: 

"What  shall  we  do  to-night?  It  is  only  a  quarter 
past  nine.     Shall  we  go  anywhere?  " 


no  FLAMES 

*'0h  no,  I  think  not — wait — yes,  we  will." 

Julian  drank  his  coffee  off  at  a  gulp,  in  a  way  that 
would  have  made  him  the  despair  of  an  epicure. 

"Where  shall  we  go,  then?  " 

Julian  answered: 

'*  To  the  Euston  Road.     To  the  *  European. '  " 

"The  '  European'!" 

"Yes,  Valentine;  I  must  see  Marr  once  more,  even 
dead.  And  I  want  you  to  see  him.  It  was  he  who  made 
the  strangeness  in  our  lives.  But  for  him  these  curious 
events  of  the  last  days  would  not  have  happened. 
And  is  n't  it  peculiar  that  he  must  have  died  just  about 
the  time  you  were  in  your  trance?  " 

"  I  do  not  see  that.  The  two  things  were  totally  un- 
connected." 

"Perhaps.  I  suppose  so.  But  I  must  know  how  he 
died.  I  must  see  what  he  looks  like  dead.  You  will 
come  with  me?  " 

"  If  you  wish  it.     But  we  may  not  be  admitted," 

"  I  will  manage  that  somehow.     Let  us  go." 

Valentine  got  up.  He  showed  neither  definite  reluc- 
tance nor  excitement.  They  put  on  their  coats  in  the  vesti- 
bule and  went  out  into  the  street.  While  they  had  been 
dining  the  weather,fine  during  the  day,  had  changed,  and 
rain  was  falling  in  sheets.  They  stood  in  the  doorway 
while  the  hall-porter  called  a  cab.  Piccadilly  on  such  a 
night  as  this  looked  perhaps  more  decisively  dreary  than 
a  rain-soaked  country  lane,  or  storm-driven  sand-dunes 
by  the  sea.  For  wet  humanity,  with  wispy  hair  and 
swishing  petticoats,  draggled  with  desire  for  shelter,  is 
a  piteous  vision  as  it  passes  by. 

Valentine  and  Julian  regarded  it,  turning  up  their 
coat  collars  and  instinctively  thrusting  their  hands  deep 
into  their  pockets.  Two  soldiers  passed,  pursued  by  a 
weary  and  tattered  woman,  at  whom  they  laughingly 
jeered  as  they  adjusted  the  cloaks  over  their  broad 
shoulders.  They  were  hurrying  back  to  barracks,  and 
disregarded  the  woman's  reiterated  exclamation  that  she 
would  go  with  them,  having  no  home.  A  hansom  went 
by  with  the  glass  down,  a  painted  face  staring  through 
it  upon  the  yellow  mud  that  splashed  round  the  horse's 


A   DRIVE   IN   THE    RAIN  iii 

feet.  Suddenly  the  horse  slipped  and  came  down.  The 
glass  splintered  as  the  painted  and  now  screaming  face 
was  dashed  through  it.  A  wet  crowd  of  roughs  and 
pavement  vagabonds  gathered  and  made  hoarse  remarks 
on  the  woman's  dress  as  she  was  hauled  out  in  her  finery, 
bleeding  and  half  fainting,  her  silk  gown  a  prey  to  the 
mud,  her  half-naked  shoulders  a  hostage  to  the  wind. 
Two  men  in  opera-hats,  walked  towards  their  club,  dis- 
cussing a  divorce  case,  and  telling  funny  stories  through 
the  rain.  A  very  small,  pale,  and  filthy  boy  stood  with 
bare  feet  upon  the  kerbstone,  and  cried  damp  matches. 

"How  horrible  London  is  to-night,"  Julian  said  as 
he  and  Valentine  got  into  their  cab. 

"Yes.  Why  add  to  our  necessary  contemplation  of 
its  horrors?     Why  go  on  this  mad  errand?  " 

*'I  want  you  to  see  Marr,"  Julian  replied,  with  a 
curious  obstinacy.      He  pushed  up  the  trap  in  the  roof. 

"  Drive  to  the  European  Hotel,  in  the  Euston  Road," 
he  said  to  the  cabman.      "  D'  you  know  it?  " 

"Yes,  sir,"  the  cabman  said.  He  was  smiling  on  his 
perch  as  he  cracked  his  whip  and  drove  towards  the 
Circus. 

The  glass  had  been  let  down  and  the  two  friends  be- 
held a  continuously  blurred  prospect  of  London  framed 
in  racing  raindrops  and  intersected  by  the  wooden  frame- 
work of  the  movable  shutter.  It  was  at  the  same  time 
fantastic  and  tumultuous.  The  glare  of  light  at  the 
Circus  shone  over  the  everlasting  procession  of  con- 
verging omnibuses,  the  everlasting  mob  of  prostitutes 
and  of  respectable  citizens  waiting  to  mount  into  the  vehi- 
cles whose  paint  proclaimed  their  destination.  Active 
walkers  darted  dexterously  to  and  fro  over  the  cobble- 
stones, occasionally  turning  sharply  to  swear  at  a  driver 
whose  cab  had  bespattered  their  black  conventionality 
with  clinging  dirt.  The  drivers  were  impassively  insult- 
ing, as  became  men  placed  for  the  moment  in  a  high  sta- 
tion of  life.  At  the  door  of  the  Criterion  Restaurant  an 
enormously  fat  and  white  bookmaker  in  a  curly  hat  and 
diamonds  muttered  remarks  into  the  ear  of  an  unshaven 
music-hall  singer.  A  gigantic  "  chucker-out  "  observed 
them  with  the  dull  gaze  of  sullen  habit,  and  a  beggar- 


113  FLAMES 

boy  whined  to  them  in  vain  for  alms,  then  fluttered  into 
obscurity.  Fixed  with  corner  stones  upon  the  wet  pave- 
ment of  the  "island  "  lay  in  an  unwinking  row  the  con- 
tents bill  of  the  evening  papers,  proclaiming  in  gigantic 
black  or  red  letters  the  facts  of  suicide,  slander,  divorce, 
murder,  railway  accidents,  fires,  and  war  complications. 
Dreary  men  read  them  with  dreary,  unexcited  eyes,  then 
forked  out  halfpence  to  raucous  youths  whose  arms 
were  full  of  damp  sheets  of  pink  paper.  A  Guardsman 
kissed  "good-bye"  to  his  trembling  sweetheart  as  he 
chivalrously  assisted  her  into  a  Marylebone  'bus,  and 
two  shop-girls,  going  home  from  work,  nudged  each 
other  and  giggled  hysterically.  Four  fat  Frenchmen 
stood  in  the  porch  of  the  Monico  violently  gesticulating 
and  talking  volubly  at  the  tops  of  their  voices.  Two 
English  undergraduates  pushed  past  them  with  a  look  of 
contempt,  and  went  speechlessly  into  the  cafe  beyond. 
A  lady  from  Paris,  all  red  velvet  and  white  ostrich-tips, 
smoothed  her  cheek  with  her  kid  glove  meditatively, 
and  glanced  about  in  search  of  her  fate  of  the  dark  and 
silent  hours.  And  then — Valentine  and  Julian  were  in 
the  comparative  dimness  of  Shaftesbury  Avenue  —  a 
huge  red  cross  on  a  black  background  started  out  of 
the  gloom  above  a  playhouse.  Julian  shuddered  at  it 
visibly. 

"You  are  quite  unstrung  to-night,  Julian,"  Valentine 
said.      "Let  us  turn  the  cab  round  and  go  home." 

"No,  no,  my  dear  fellow;  I  am  all  right.  It  is  only 
that  I  see  things  to-night  much  more  clearly  than  usual. 
I  suppose  it  is  owing  to  something  physical  that  every 
side  of  London  seems  to  have  sprung  into  prominence. 
Of  course  I  go  about  every  day  in  Piccadilly,  St.  James's 
Street,  everywhere;  but  it  is  as  if  my  eyes  had  been 
always  shut,  and  now  they  are  open.  I  can  see  London 
to-night.  And  that  cross  looked  so  devilishly  ironical  up 
there,  as  if  it  were  silently  laughing  at  the  tumult  in  the 
rain.   Do  n't  you  feel  London  to-night,  too,  Valentine?" 

"  I  always  feel  it." 

"Tragically  or  comically? " 

"  I  do  n't  know  that  I  could  say  truly  either.  Calmly 
or  contemptuously  would  rather  be  the  word." 


A   DRIVE   IN   THE   RAIN  iit 

*' You  are  always  a  philosopher.  I  can't  be  a  philoso- 
pher when  I  see  those  hordes  of  women  standing  hout 
after  hour  in  the  rain,  and  those  boys  searching  among 
them.  I  should  be  one  of  those  boys  probably  but  for 
you." 

"If  you  were,  I  doubt  whether  I  should  feel  hor- 
rified." 

"  Not  morally  horrified,  I  dare  say,  but  intellectually 
disgusted.     Eh? " 

"I  am  not  sure  whether  I  shall  permit  my  intellect 
quite  so  much  license  in  the  future  as  I  have  permitted  it 
in  the  past,"  Valentine  said  thoughtfully. 

His  blue  eyes  were  on  Julian,  but  Julian  was  gazing 
out  on  Oxford  Street,  which  they  were  crossing  at  that 
moment.  Julian,  who  had  apparently  continued  dwell- 
ing on  the  train  of  thoughts  waked  in  him  by  the  sight  of 
the  painted  cross,  ignored  this  remark  and  said: 

"  It  is  not  my  moral  sense  which  shuddered  just  now, 
I  believe,  but  my  imagination.  Sin  is  so  full  of  prose, 
although  many  clever  writers  have  represented  it  as 
splendidly  decorated  with  poetry.  Do  n't  you  think  so, 
Val?  And  it  is  the  prose  of  sin  I  realize  so  vividly  just 
now." 

"The  wet  flowers  on  the  waiting  hats,  the  cold  rain- 
drops on  the  painted  faces,  the  damp  boots  trudging  to 
find  sin,  the  dark  clouds  pouring  a  benediction  on  it.  I 
know  what  you  mean.  But  the  whole  question  is  one  of 
weather,  I  think.  Vanity  Fair  on  a  hot,  sweet  summer 
night,  with  a  huge  golden  moon  over  Westminster,  soft 
airs  and  dry  pavements,  would  make  you  see  this  city  in 
a  different  light.  And  which  of  the  lights  is  the  true 
one?  " 

"I  dare  say  neither." 

"Why  not  both?  The  smartest  coat  has  a  lining,  you 
know.  I  dare  say  there  are  velvet  sins  as  well  as  plush 
sins,  and  the  man  who  can  find  the  velvet  is  the  lucky 
fellow.  Sins  feel  like  plush  to  me,  however,  and  I  dis- 
like plush.     So  I  am  not  the  lucky  fellow." 

"  No,  Valentine;  you  are  wrong.  I  'm  pretty  sure  all 
virtue  is  velvet  and  all  vice  is  plush.  So  you  stick  to 
velvet." 


114  FLAMES 

'*  I  do  n't  know.  Ask  the  next  pretty  dressmaker  you 
meet.     Bloomsbury  is  a  genteel  inferno  on  a  wet  night." 

They  traversed  it  smoothly  on  asphalt  ways.  All  the 
time  Valentine  was  watching  Julian  with  a  fixed  and  nar- 
row scrutiny,  which  Julian  failed  to  notice.  The  rows  of 
dull  houses  seemed  endless,  and  endlessly  alike. 

"I  am  sure  all  of  them  are  full  of  solicitors,"  said 
Valentine." 

Presently  in  many  fanlights  they  saw  the  mystic  legend, 
"Apartments."  Then  there  were  buildings  that  had  an 
aged  air  and  sported  broken  windows.  Occasionally,  on 
a  background  of  red  glass  lit  by  a  gas-jet  from  behind, 
sat  the  word  "Hotel."  A  certain  grimy  degradation 
swam  in  the  atmosphere  of  these  streets.  Their  aspect 
was  subtly  different  from  the  Bloomsbury  thoroughfares, 
which  look  actively  church-going,  and  are  full  of  the 
shadows  of  an  everlasting  respectability  which  pays  its 
water  rates  and  sends  occasional  conscience-money  to 
the  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer.  People  looked  furtive, 
and  went  in  and  out  of  the  houses  furtively.  They 
crawled  rather  than  pranced,  and  their  bodies  bore 
themselves  with  a  depression  that  seemed  indiscreet. 
Occasionally  men  with  dripping  umbrellas  knocked  at 
the  doors  under  the  red  glass,  and  disappeared  into  nar- 
row passages  inhabited  by  small  iron  umbrella-stands. 
Night  brooded  here  like  a  dyspeptic  raven  with  moulting 
tail-feathers  and  ragged  wings.  But  London  is  eloquent 
of  surprises.  The  cab  turned  a  corner,  and  instantly 
they  were  in  a  wide  and  rain-swept  street,  long  and 
straight,  and  lined  with  reserved  houses,  that  shrank 
back  from  the  publicity  of  the  passing  traffic  at  the  end 
of  narrow  alleys  protected  by  iron  gates.  Over  many  of 
these  gates  appeared  lit  arches  of  glass  on  which  names 
were  inscribed:  "Albion  Hotel,"  "  Valetta  Hotel," 
"Imperial  Hotel,"  "Cosmopolitan  Hotel,"  —  great 
names  for  small  houses.  These  houses  had  front  doors 
with  glass  panels,  and  all  the  panels  glowed  dimly  with 
gas. 

The  cab  flashed  by  them,  and  Julian  read  the  fleeting 
names,  until  his  eyes  were  suddenly  saluted  with  "Eu- 
ropean Hotel." 


A    DRIVE    IN   THE    RAIN  115 

Violently  the  cabman  drew  up.  The  smoking  horse 
was  squeezed  upon  its  haunches,  and  its  feet  slithered 
harshly  along  the  stones.  It  tried  to  sit  down,  was 
hauled  up  by  the  reins,  and  stood  trembling  as  the  right 
wheel  of  the  cab  collided  with  the  pavement  edge,  and 
the  water  in  the  gutter  splashed  up  as  if  projected  from 
a  spray. 

"  Beg  pardon,  gents.  I  thought  it  was  a  bit  further 
on,"  said  the  cabby,  leering  down  cheerfully.  "Nice 
night,  sir,  ain't  it?" 

He  shook  the  reluctant  drops  of  moisture  from  his 
waterproof-shrouded  hat,  and  drove  off. 

Valentine  opened  the  damp  iron  gate,  and  they 
walked  up  the  paved  alley  to  the  door. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE   EUSTON  ROAD  EPISODE 

Opening  the  door,  they  found  themselves  in  a  squalid 
passage.  A  room  on  the  left  was  fronted  by  a  sort  of 
counter,  above  which  was  a  long  window  giving  onto 
the  passage,  and  as  the  shrill  tinkle  of  a  bell  an- 
nounced their  entrance  this  window  was  pushed  up,  and 
the  large  red  face  and  furtive  observant  eyes  of  a  man 
stared  upon  them  inquiringly. 

"  Do  you  require  a  room  for  the  night?  "  he  asked,  in 
a  husky  voice,  invaded  by  a  strong  French  accent.  "  Be- 
cause— " 

"  No,"  interrupted  Julian.  ' 

The  man  nodded,  and,  strange  to  say,  with  apparent 
content. 

"There  is  trouble  in  my  house,"  he  said.  *' I  am 
unlucky;  I  come  to  England  from  my  country  to  earn  an 
honest  living,  and  before  two  years,  I  have  the  police 
here  last  night." 

*'Yes, "  said  Julian,  **  I  know." 

"  What?  You  know  it?  Well,  it  is  not  my  fault. 
The  gentleman  come  last  night  with  a  lady,  his  wife,  I 
suppose.  How  am  I  to  know?  He  ask  for  a  room.  He 
look  perfectly  well.  I  give  them  the  room.  They  go  to 
bed.  At  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  I  hear  a  bell  ring. 
I  get  up.  I  go  on  the  landing  to  listen.  I  hear  the  bell 
again.  I  run  to  the  chamber  of  the  lady  and  gentleman. 
The  lady  is  gone.  The  gentleman  falls  back  on  the  bed 
as  I  come  in  and  dies.     Mon  Dieu!     It  is — " 

He  suddenly  paused  in  his  excited  narrative.  Valen- 
tine had  moved  his  position  slightly  and  was  now  stand- 
ing almost  immediately  under  the  gas-lamp  that  lit  the 
glass  door. 

n6 


THE    EUSTON    ROAD    EPISODE         n; 

"You — you  are  relation  of  him?"  he  said.  "You 
come  to  see  him?  " 

"  I  have  come  to  see  him,  certainly,"  said  Valentine. 
"  But  I  am  no  relation  of  his.  This  gentleman,"  and 
he  pointed  to  Julian,  "  knew  him  well,  and  wished  to  look 
at  him  once  more." 

The  landlord  seemed  puzzled.  He  glanced  from  Val- 
entine to  Julian,  then  back  again  to  Valentine. 

"But,"  he  began,  once  more  addressing  himself  to 
the  latter,  "  you  are  like — there  is  something;  when  the 
poor  gentleman  fell  on  the  bed  and  died  he  had  your 
eyes.     Yes,  yes,  you  are  relation  of  him." 

"No,"  Valentine  said;   "you  are  mistaken." 

"  I  should  think  so,"  exclaimed  Julian.  "  Poor  Marr's 
face  was  as  utterly  different  from  yours,  Valentine,  as 
darkness  is  different  from  light." 

"No,  no;  it  is  not  the  eyes  of  the  gentleman,"  the 
landlord  continued,  leaning  forward  through  his  window, 
and  still  violently  scrutinizing  Valentine, — "  it  is  not  the 
eyes.  But  there  is  something  —  the  voice,  the  manner  — 
yes,  I  say  there  is  something,  I  cannot  tell." 

"You  are  dreaming,  my  friend,"  Valentine  calmly 
interposed.     "  Now,  Julian,  what  do  you  want  to  do?  " 

Julian  came  forward  and  leant  his  arm  on  the  counter. 

"I  am  the  poor  gentleman's  great  friend,"  he  said. 
"You  must  let  me  see  him." 

The  landlord  held  up  his  fat  hands  with  a  large  ges- 
ticulation of  refusal. 

"  I  cannot,  sir.  To-morrow  they  remove  him.  They 
sit  on  the  poor  gentleman  —  " 

"I  know, —  the  inquest.  All  this  is  very  hard  upon 
you,  an  honest  man  trying  to  make  an  honest  living." 

Julian  put  some  money  into  one  of  the  agitated  hands. 

' '  My  friend  and  I  only  wish  to  see  him  for  a  moment. ' ' 

"Monsieur,  I  cannot.      I — " 

Julian  insinuated  another  sovereign  into  his  protest- 
ing fingers.  They  took  it  as  an  anemone  takes  a 
shrimp,  and  made  a  gesture  of  abdication. 

"Well,  if  Monsieur  is  the  friend  of  the  poor  gentle- 
man, I  have  not  the  heart,  I  am  tender-hearted,  I  am 
foolish —  " 


ii8  FLAMES 

He  disappeared  muttering  from  the  window,  and  in 
a  moment  appeared  at  a  door  on  the  left,  disclosing  him- 
self now  fully  as  a  degraded,  flaccid-looking,  frouzy 
ruffian  of  a  very  low  type,  flashily  dressed,  and  of  a 
most  unamiable  expression.  Taking  a  candlestick  from 
a  dirty  marble-topped  slab  that  projected  from  the  pass- 
age-wall, he  struck  a  match,  lit  the  candle,  and  pre- 
ceded them  up  the  narrow  flight  of  stairs,  his  boots 
creaking  loudly  at  every  step.  On  the  landing  at  the 
top  a  smart  maid-servant  with  a  very  pale  face  recon- 
noitered  the  party  for  a  moment  with  furtive  curiosity, 
then  flitted  away  in  the  darkness  to  the  upper  regions  of 
the  house. 

The  landlord  paused  by  a  door  numbered  with  a  black 
number. 

"He  is  in  here,"  he  whispered  hoarsely.  "To- 
morrow they  sit  on  him.  After  that  he  go  from  me. 
Mon  Dieu!  I  am  glad  when  he  is  gone.  My  custom  he 
is  spoilt.  My  house  get  a  bad  name,  and  like  a  dog  they 
hang  him.     Mon  Dieu!" 

He  opened  the  door  stealthily,  forming  "St!"  with 
his  fat,  coarse  lips. 

"  I  light  the  gas.     It  is  all  dark. " 

"No,  no,"  Julian  said,  taking  the  candle  from  him, 
"  I  will  do  that.     Go  down. ' ' 

He  motioned  him  away,  and  entered  the  room,  fol- 
lowed by  Valentine,  at  whom  the  landlord  again  stared 
with  a  greedy  consideration  and  curiosity,  before  turning 
to  retreat  softly  down  the  narrow  stairs. 

They  found  themselves  in  a  good-sized  room,  typically 
of  London.  It  was  full  of  the  peculiar  and  unmistakable 
metropolitan  smell,  a  stale  odor  of  the  streets  that  sug- 
gests smuts  to  the  mind.  Two  windows,  with  a  long 
dingy  mirror  set  between  them,  looked  out  towards  the 
Euston  Road.  Venetian  blinds  and  thin  white  curtains 
looped  with  yellow  ribbon  shrouded  them.  On  a  slab 
that  stuck  out  under  the  mirror  was  placed  a  bundle  of 
curling-pins  tied  with  white  tape,  a  small  brush  and 
comb,  and  a  bottle  of  cherry-blossom  scent.  Near  the 
mirror  stood  a  narrow  sofa  covered  with  red  rep.  Upon 
this  lay  a  man's  upturned  top-hat,  in  the  corner  of  which 


THE   EUSTON    ROAD    EPISODE         119 

reposed  a  pair  of  reindeer  gloves.  A  walking-stick  with 
a  gold  top  stood  against  the  wall,  in  a  corner  by  the 
marble  mantlepiece.  In  the  middle  of  the  room  lay  a 
small  open  portmanteau,  disclosing  a  disorder  of  shirts, 
handkerchiefs,  and  boots,  a  cheque-book,  a  bottle  of 
brandy,  and  some  brushes.  By  the  fireplace  there  was  a 
vulgar-looking  arm-chair  upholstered  in  red.  The  room 
was  full  of  the  faint  sound  of  London  voices  and  London 
traffic. 

Julian  went  straight  up  to  the  gas  chandelier  and  lit 
all  three  jets.  His  action  was  hurried  and  abrupt.  Then 
he  set  the  candle  down  beside  the  bundle  of  curling-pins, 
and  turned  sharply  round  to  face  the  bed.  The  room 
was  now  a  glare  of  light,  and  in  this  glare  of  light  the 
broad  bed  with  its  white  counterpane  and  sheets  stood 
out  harshly  enough.  The  sheets  were  turned  smoothly 
down  under  the  blue  chin  of  the  dead  man,  who  lay 
there  upon  his  back,  his  face  with  fast-shut  eyes  dusky 
white,  or  rather  grey,  among  the  pillows.  As  Julian 
looked  upon  him  he  exclaimed: 

"Good  God,  it  isn't  Marr!  Valentine,  it  isn't 
Marr!" 

"Not?" 

"No.     And  yet  —  wait  a  moment  —  " 

Julian  came  nearer  to  the  bed  and  bent  right  down 
over  the  corpse.  Then  he  drew  away  and  looked  at  Val- 
entine, who  was  at  the  other  side  of  the  bed. 

"Oh,  Valentine,  this  is  strange,"  he  whispered,  and 
drawing  a  chair  to  the  bedside,  he  sank  down  upon  it. 
"This  is  strange.  What  is  it  death  does  to  a  man? 
Yes;  this  is  Marr.  I  see  now;  but  so  different,  so 
altered!  The  whole  expression, —  oh,  it  is  almost  incredi- 
ble." 

He  stared  again  upon  the  face. 

It  was  long  in  shape,  thin  and  swarthy,  very  weary- 
looking,  the  face  of  a  man  who  had  seen  much,  who  had 
done  very  many,  very  various  things.  No  face  with  shut 
eyes  can  look,  perhaps,  completely  characteristic.  Yet 
this  face  was  full  of  a  character  that  seemed  curiously  at 
war  with  the  shape  of  the  features  and  with  the  position 
of  the   closed   eyes,    which   were   very   near   together. 


I20  FLAMES 

Julian,  in  describing  Marr  to  Valentine,  had  pronounced 
him  Satanic,  and  this  dead  face  was,  in  truth,  somewhat 
Mephistophelean.  An  artist  might  well  have  painted  it 
upon  his  canvas  as  a  devil.  But  he  must  have  reproduced 
merely  the  features  and  colouring,  the  blue,  shaven 
cheeks,  and  hollow  eye-sockets;  for  the  expression  of  his 
devil  he  would  have  been  obliged  to  seek  another  model. 
Marr,  dead,  looked  serene,  kind,  gentle,  satisfied,  like  a 
man  who  has  shaken  himself  free  from  a  heavy  burden, 
and  who  stretches  himself  to  realize  the  sudden  and 
wonderful  ease  for  which  he  has  longed,  and  who  smiles, 
thinking,  "  That  ghastly  thrall  is  over.  I  am  a  slave 
no  longer.  I  am  free."  The  dead  face  was  wonderfully 
happy. 

Julian  seemed  entirely  fascinated  by  it.  After  his  last 
smothered  exclamation  to  Valentine,  he  sat,  leaning  one 
arm  upon  the  head  of  the  bed,  gazing  till  he  looked 
stern,  as  all  utterly  ardent  observers  look. 

Valentine,  too,  was  staring  at  the  dead  man. 

There  was  a  very  long  silence  in  the  room.  The  rain 
leaped  upon  the  tall  windows  on  each  side  of  the  mirror 
and  ran  down  them  with  an  unceasing  chilly  vivacity. 
Lights  from  the  street  flickered  through  the  blinds  to 
join  the  glare  of  the  gas.  All  the  music  of  the  town 
wandered  round  the  house  as  a  panther  wanders  round  a 
bungalow  by  night.  And  the  thin  stream  of  people 
flowed  by  on  the  shining  pavement  beyond  the  iron  rail- 
ing of  the  narrow  garden.  They  spoke,  as  they  went,  of 
all  the  minor  things  of  life,  details  of  home,  details  of 
petty  sins,  details  of  common  loves  and  common  hopes 
and  fears,  all  stirring  feebly  under  umbrellas.  And  close 
by  these  two  friends,  under  three  flaring  gas-jets, 
watched  the  unwinking  dead  man,  whose  face  seemed  full 
of  relief.      Presently  Julian,  without  looking  up,  said: 

"  Death  has  utterly  changed  him.  He  is  no  longer 
the  same  man.  Formerly  he  looked  all  evil,  and  now 
it 's  just  as  if  his  body  were  thanking  God  because  it  had 
got  rid  of  a  soul  it  had  hated.  Yes,  it 's  just  like  that. 
Valentine,  I  feel  as  if  Marr  had  been  rescued." 

As  he  said  the  last  words  Julian  looked  up  across  the 
barrier  of  the  bed  at  his  friend.     His  lips  opened  as  if 


THE    EUSTON   ROAD    EPISODE         121 

to  speak,  but  he  said  nothing;  for  he  was  under  the 
spell  of  a  wild  hallucination.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
there,  under  the  hard  glare  of  the  gas-lamps,  the  soul  of 
Marr  spoke,  stared  from  the  pure,  proud  face  of  Valen- 
tine. That  was  like  a  possession  of  his  friend.  It  was 
horrible,  as  if  a  devil  chose  for  a  moment  to  lurk  and  to 
do  evil  in  the  sanctuary  of  a  church,  to  blaspheme  at  the 
very  altar.  Valentine  did  not  speak.  He  was  looking 
down  on  the  dead  serenity  of  Marr,  vindictively.  A  busy 
intellect  flashed  in  his  clear  blue  eyes,  meditating  vigor- 
ously upon  the  dead  man's  escape  from  bondage,  follow- 
ing him  craftily  to  the  very  door  of  his  freedom,  to  seize 
him  surely,  if  it  might  be. 

This  is  what  Julian  felt  in  his  hallucination,  that  Val- 
entine was  pursuing  Marr,  uselessly,  but  with  a  deadly 
intention,  a  deadly  hatred. 

"  Valentine!  "  Julian  cried  at  last. 

Valentine  looked  up. 

And  in  an  instant  the  spell  was  removed.  Julian  saw 
his  friend  and  protector  rightly  again,  calm,  pure,  deli- 
cately reserved.  The  death-chamber  no  longer  con- 
tained a  phantom.  His  eyes  were  no  longer  the  purveyors 
of  a  terrible  deception  to  his  mind. 

"Oh,  Valentine,  come  here,"  Julian  said. 

Valentine  came  round  by  the  end  of  the  bed  and 
stood  beside  him. 

Julian  examined  him  narrowly. 

"Never  stand  opposite  to  me  again,  Valentine." 

"  Opposite  to  you!     Why  not?  " 

"Nothing,  nothing.  Or  —  everything.  What  is  the 
matter  with  this  room?  and  me?  and  you?  And  why  is 
Marr  so  changed?  " 

"  How  is  he  changed?  You  know  I  have  never  seen 
his  face  before." 

"You  do  not  see  it  now.  He  has  gone  out  of  it.  All 
that  was  Marr  as  I  knew  him  has  utterly  gone.  Death 
has  driven  it  away  and  left  something  quite  different. 
Let  us  go." 

Julian  got  up,  Valentine  took  up  the  candle  from  its 
place  beside  the  curling-pins  and  lifted  his  hand  to  the 
gas-chandelier.     He  had  turned  out  one  of  the  burners, 


122  FLAMES 

and  was  just  going  to  turn  out  the  two  others  when 
Julian  checked  him. 

"No;  leave  them.  Let  the  landlord  put  them  out. 
Leave  him  in  the  light." 

They  went  out  of  the  room,  treading  softly.  A  little 
way  up  the  staircase  that  led  from  the  landing  to  the 
upper  parts  of  the  house  a  light  flickered  down  to  them, 
and  they  perceived  the  pale  face  of  the  housemaid  dili- 
gently regarding  them.     Julian  beckoned  to  her. 

"You  showed  the  gentleman  —  the  gentleman  who  is 
dead  — to  his  room  last  night?  " 

"  Yes,  sir.  Oh,  sir,  I  can't  believe  he  's  really  gone 
so  sudden  like." 

"  Then  you  saw  the  lady  with  him?  " 

"  Yes,  of  course.     Oh — " 

"  Hush!     What  was  she  like?  " 

The  housemaid's  nose  curled  derisively. 

"Oh,  sir,  quite  the  usual  sort.  Oh,  a  very  common 
person.     Not  at  all  like  the  poor  gentleman,  sir." 

"Young?" 

"Not  to  say  old,  sir.  No;  I  couldn't  bring  that 
against  her.  She  wore  a  hat,  sir,  and  feathers — well, 
more  than  ever  growed  on  one  ostrich,  I  '11  be  bound." 

"  Feathers!  " 

A  vision  of  the  lady  of  the  feathers  sprang  up  before 
Julian,  wrapped  in  the  wan  light  of  the  early  dawn.  He 
put  several  rapid  questions  to  the  housemaid.  But  she 
could  only  say  again  that  Marr's  companion  had  been  a 
very  common  person,  a  very  common  sort  of  person  in- 
deed, and  flashily  dressed,  not  at  all  as  she  —  the  house- 
maid—  would  care  to  go  out  of  a  Sunday.  Julian  tipped 
her  and  left  her  amazed  upon  the  dim  landing.  Then  he 
and  Valentine  descended  the  stairs.  The  landlord  was 
waiting  in  the  passage  in  an  attentive  attitude  against 
the  wall.  He  seemed  taken  unawares  by  their  appear- 
ance, but  his  eyes  immediately  sought  Valentine's  face, 
still  apparently  questioning  it  with  avidity.  Julian  no- 
ticed this,  and  recollected  that  the  man  had  insisted  on 
a  likeness  existing  between  Marr  and  Valentine.  Pos- 
sibly that  fact,  although  apparently  unremembered,  had 
remained  lurking  in  his  mind,  and  was  accountable  for 


THE    EUSTON    ROAD   EPISODE         123 

his  own  curious  deception.  Or  could  it  be  that  there 
really  was  some  vague,  fleeting-resemblance  between  the 
dead  man  and  the  living  which  the  landlord  saw  continu- 
ously, he  only  at  moments?  Looking  again  at  Valentine 
he  could  not  believe  it.  No;  the  landlord  was  deceived 
now,  as  he  had  been  in  the  death-chamber  above 
stairs. 

"May  we  come  into  your  room  for  a  moment?" 
Julian  asked  the  man.  "  I  want  to  put  to  you  a  few  ques- 
tions." 

"But  certainly,  sir,  with  pleasure." 

He  opened  the  side  door  and  showed  them  into  his 
sanctum  beyond  the  glass  window.  It  was  a  small,  evil- 
looking  room,  crowded  with  fumes  of  stale  tobacco.  On 
the  walls  hung  two  or  three  French  prints  of  more  than 
doubtful  decency.  A  table  with  a  bottle  and  two  or 
three  glasses  ranged  on  it  occupied  the  middle  of  the 
floor.  On  a  chair  by  the  fire  the  Gil  Bias  was  thrown  in 
a  crumpled  attitude.  One  gas-burner  flared,  unshaded 
by  any  glass  globe.  Julian  sat  down  on  the  Gil  Bias. 
Valentine  refused  the  landlord's  offer  of  a  chair,  and 
stood  looking  rather  contemptuously  at  the  inartistic 
improprieties  of  the  prints. 

"  Did  you  let  in  the  gentleman  who  came  last  night?  " 
asked  Julian. 

"But,  sir,  of  course.  I  am  always  here.  I  mind  my 
house.     I  see  that  only  respect — " 

"  Exactly.  I  do  n't  doubt  that  for  a  moment.  What 
was  the  lady  like, —  the  lady  who  accompanied  him?  " 

"Oh,  sir,  very  chic,  very  pretty." 

"  Did  n't  you  hear  her  go  out  in  the  night?  " 

The  landlord  looked  for  a  moment  as  if  he  were  con- 
sidering the  advisableness  of  a  little  bluster.  He  stared 
hard  at  Julian  and  thought  better  of  it. 

"Not  a  sound,  not  a  mouse.  Till  the  bell  rang  I 
slept.     Then  she  is  gone!  " 

"  Would  you  recognize  her  again?  " 

"  But  no.     I  hardly  look  at  her,  and  I  see  so  many." 

"Yes,  yes,  no  doubt.  And  the  gentleman.  When 
you  went  into  his  room?  " 

"  Ah!     He  was  half  sitting  up.     I  come  in.     He  just 


124  FLAMES 

look   at   me.      He   fall   back.      He   is   dead.     He    say 
nothing.     Then  I  —  I  run." 

"That 'sail  I  wanted  to  know, "  Julian  said.  "Valen- 
tine, shall  we  go?  " 

"  By  all  means." 

The  landlord  seemed  relieved  at  their  decision,  and 
eagerly  let  them  out  into  the  pouring  rain.  When  they 
were  in  the  dismal  strip  of  garden  Julian  turned  and 
looked  up  at  the  lit  windows  of  the  bedroom  on  the  first 
story.  Marr  was  lying  there  in  the  bright  illumination 
at  ease,  relieved  of  his  soul.  But,  as  Julian  looked,  the 
two  windows  suddenly  grew  dark.  Evidently  the  eco- 
nomical landlord  had  hastened  up,  observed  the  waste  of 
the  material  he  had  to  pay  for,  and  abruptly  stopped  it. 
At  the  gate  they  called  a  cab. 

"No;  let  us  have  the  glass  up,"  Julian  said;  "  a  drop  of 
rain  more  or  less  does  n't  matter.     And  I  want  some  air. ' ' 

"So  do  I,"  said  Valentine.  "The  atmosphere  of 
that  house  was  abominable." 

"Of  course  there  can  be  no  two  opinions  as  to  its 
character,"  Julian  said. 

"  Of  course  not." 

*'  What  a  dreary  place  to  die  in!  " 

"Yes.  But  does  it  matter  where  one  dies?  I  think 
not.     I  attach  immense  importance  to  where  one  lives." 

"It  seems  horrible  to  come  to  an  end  in  such  a  place, 
to  have  had  that  wretched  Frenchman  as  the  only  witness 
of  one's  death.  Still,  I  suppose  it  is  only  foolish  senti- 
ment. Valentine,  did  you  notice  how  happy  Marr 
looked?" 

"No." 

"  Did  n't  you?  I  thought  you  watched  him  almost  as 
if  you  wondered  as  I  did." 

"  How  could  I?     I  had  never  seen  him  before." 

"  It  was  curious  the  landlord  seeing  a  likeness  between 
you  and  him." 

"  Do  you  think  so?  The  man  naturally  supposed  one 
of  us  might  be  a  relation,  as  we  came  to  see  Marr.  I 
should  not  suppose  there  could  be  much  resemblance." 

"There  is  none.  It's  impossible.  There  can  be 
none! " 


THE    EUSTON   ROAD    EPISODE         125 

They  rattled  on  towards  Piccadilly,  back  through  the 
dismal  thoroughfares,  towards  the  asphalt  ways  of 
Bloomsbury.      Presently  Julian  said: 

"  I  wish  I  had  seen  Marr  die." 

"  But  why,  Julian  ?  Why  this  extraordinary  interest 
in  a  man  you  knew  so  slightly  and  for  so  short  a  time  ?  " 

"It  's  because  I  can't  get  it  out  of  my  head  that  he 
had  something  to  do  with  our  sittings,  more  than  we 
know." 

"  Impossible." 

'*  I  am  almost  certain  the  doctor  thought  so.  I  must 
tell  him  about  Marr's  death.  Valentine,  let  us  drive  to 
Harley  Street  now." 

Valentine  did  not  reply  at  once,  and  Julian  said: 

"I  will  tell  the  cabman." 

"Very  well." 

Julian  gave  the  order. 

"I  wonder  if  he  will  be  in,"  Julian  said  presently. 
"What  is  the  time?  " 

He  took  out  his  watch  and  held  it  up  sideways  until 
the  light  of  a  gas-lamp  flashed  on  it  for  a  moment. 

"  Just  eleven.     So  late?     I  am  surprised." 

"We  were  a  good  while  at  the  '  European.'  " 

"Longer  than  I  thought.  Probably  the  doctor  will 
have  come  in,  even  if  he  has  been  out  dining.  Ah,  here 
we  are ! ' ' 

The  cab  drew  up.  Julian  got  out  and  rang  the  bell 
in  the  rain. 

"Is  Doctor  Levillier  at  home?" 

"  No,  sir.  He  is  out  dining.  But  I  expect  him  every 
moment.  Will  you  come  in  and  wait?"  said  the  man- 
servant, who  knew  Julian  well. 

"  Thanks;  I  think  I  will.  I  rather  want  to  see  him.  I 
will  just  ask  Mr.  Cresswell.      He  's  with  me  to-night." 

Julian  returned  to  the  cab,  in  which  Valentine  was 
sitting. 

"  The  doctor  will  probably  be  home  in  a  few  minutes. 
Let  us  go  in  and  wait  for  him." 

"Yes,  you  go  in." 

"But  surely—" 

"No,    Julian,"   Valentine  said,  and   suddenly  there 


126  FLAMES 

came  into  his  voice  a  weariness,  "I  am  rather  tired 
to-night.     I  think  I  'II  go  home  to  bed." 

"Oh,"  Julian  said.  He  was  obviously  disappointed. 
He  hesitated. 

*'  Shall  I  come  too,  old  chap?  You  're  sure  —  you  're 
certain  that  you  are  not  feeling  ill  after  last  night?  " 

He  leant  with  his  foot  on  the  step  of  the  cab  to  look 
at  Valentine  more  closely. 

*'  No;  I  am  all  right.  Only  tired  and  sleepy,  Julian. 
Well,  will  you  come  or  stay?  " 

"  I  think  I  will  stay.  I  want  badly  to  have  a  talk 
with  the  doctor." 

'  *  All  right.     Good-night. ' ' 

"Good-night!  " 

Valentine  called  his  address  to  the  cabman,  and  the 
man  whipped  up  his  horse.  Just  as  the  cab  was  turning 
round  Valentine  leaned  out  over  the  wooden  door  and 
cried  to  Julian,  who  was  just  going  into  the  house: 

"Give  my  best  regards  to  the  doctor,  Julian." 

The  cab  disappeared,  splashing  through  the  puddles. 

Julian  stood  still  on  the  doorstep. 

"  Who  said  that,  Lawler?  "  he  asked. 

The  servant  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 

"Mr.  Valentine,  sir." 

"Mr.  Valentine?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Of  course,  of  course.  But  his  voice,  didn't  — 
did  n't  you  notice — " 

"It  was  Mr.  Valentine's  usual  voice,  sir,"  Lawler 
said,  with  increasing  astonishment. 

"I'm  upset  to-night,"  Julian  muttered. 

He  went  into  the  house  and  Lawler  closed  the  street 


CHAPTER  V 

THE    HARLEY   STREET   EPISODE 

Jdlian  was  a  favourite  in  Harley  Street,  so  Lawler  did 
VJJt  hesitate  to  show  him  into  the  doctor's  very  private 
room, — a  room  dedicated  to  ease,  and  to  the  cultivation 
of  a  busy  man's  hobbies.  No  patient  ever  told  the  sad 
secrets  of  his  body  here.  Here  were  no  medical  books, 
no  appliances  for  the  writing  of  prescriptions,  no  hints 
of  the  profession  of  the  owner.  Several  pots  of  growing 
roses  gravely  shadowed  forth  the  doctor's  fondness  for 
flowers.  A  grand  piano  mutely  spoke  of  his  love  for 
music.  Many  of  the  books  which  lay  about  were  novels; 
one,  soberly  dressed  in  a  vellum  binding,  being  Ouida's 
"  Dog  of  Flanders. "  All  the  photographs  which  studded 
the  silent  chamber  with  a  reflection  of  life  were  photo- 
graphs of  children,  except  one.  That  was  Valentine's. 
The  hearth,  on  which  a  fire  flashed,  was  wide  and  had 
two  mighty  occupants,  Rupert  and  Mab,  the  doctor's 
mastiffs,  who  took  their  evening  ease,  pillowing  their  huge 
heads  upon  each  other's  heaving  bodies.  The  ticking 
clock  on  the  mantelpiece  was  an  imitation  of  the  Devil 
Clock  of  Master  Zacharius.  There  were  no  newspapers 
in  the  room.  That  fact  alone  made  it  original.  A  large 
cage  of  sleeping  canaries  was  covered  with  a  cloth.  The 
room  was  long  and  rather  narrow,  the  only  door  being  at 
one  end.  On  the  walls  hung  many  pictures,  some  of  them 
gifts  from  the  artists.  Some  foils  lay  on  an  ottoman  in 
a  far  corner.  The  doctor  fenced  admirably,  and  be- 
lieved in  the  exercise  as  a  tonic  to  the  muscles  and  a 
splendid  drill-sergeant  to  the  eyes. 

As  Julian  came  into  the  room,  which  was  lit  only  by 
wax  candles,  he  could  not  help  comparing  it  with  the 
room  he  had  just  left,  in  which  the  body  of  Marr  lay. 
The  atmosphere  of  a  house  is  a  strange  thing,  and  almost 

127 


128  FLAMES 

as  definite  to  the  mind  as  is  an  appearance  to  the  eye. 
A  sensitive  nature  talces  it  in  like  a  breath  of  fetid  or  of 
fresh  air.  The  atmosphere  of  the  European  Hotel  had 
been  sinister  and  dreary,  as  of  a  building  consecrated  to 
hidden  deeds,  and  inhabited  mainly  by  wandering  sinners. 
This  home  of  a  great  doctor  was  open-hearted  and  recep- 
tive, frank  and  refined.  The  sleeping  dogs,  heaving 
gently  in  fawn-coloured  beatitude,  set  upon  it  the  best 
hall-mark.  It  was  a  house — judging  at  least  by  this 
room — for  happy  rest.  Yet  it  was  the  abode  of  inces- 
sant work,  as  the  great  world  knew  well.  This  sanctum 
alone  was  the  shrine  of  lotos-eating.  The  doctor  some- 
times laughingly  boasted  that  he  had  never  insulted  it 
by  even  so  much  as  writing  a  post-card  within  its  four 
walls. 

Julian  stroked  the  dogs,  who  woke  to  wink  upon  him 
majestically,  and  sat  down.  Lawler  quietly  departed, 
and  he  was  left  alone.  When  he  first  entered  the  house 
he  had  been  disappointed  at  the  departure  of  Valentine. 
Now  he  felt  rather  glad  to  have  the  doctor  to  himself  for 
a  quiet  half-hour.  A  conversation  of  two  people  is, 
under  certain  circumstances, more  complete  than  a  conver- 
sation of  three,  however  delightful  the  third  may  chance 
to  be.  Julian  placed  Valentine  before  all  the  rest  of  the 
world.  Nevertheless,  to-night  he  was  glad  that  Valen- 
tine had  gone  home  to  bed.  It  seems  sometimes  as  if 
affection  contributes  to  the  making  of  a  man  self-con- 
scious. Julian  had  a  vague  notion  that  the  presence  of 
his  greatest  friend  to-night  might  render  him  self-con- 
scious. He  scarcely  knew  why.  Then  he  looked  at  the 
mastiffs,  and  wondered  at  the  extraordinary  difference 
between  men  and  the  companion  animals  whom  they 
love  and  who  love  them.  What  man,  however  natural, 
however  independent  and  serene,  could  emulate  the 
majestic  and  deliberate  abandon  of  a  big  dog  courted  and 
caressed  by  a  blazing  fire  and  a  soft  rug?  Man  has  not 
the  dignity  of  soul  to  be  so  grandly  natural.  Yet  his 
very  pert  self-consciousness,  the  fringed  petticoats  of 
affectation  which  he  wears,  give  him  the  kennel,  the  collar, 
the  muzzle,  the  whip,  weapons  of  power  to  bring  the  dog 
to  subjection.     And  Julian,  as  he  watched  Rupert  and 


THE   HARLEY   STREET   EPISODE      129 

Mab  wrapped  in  large  lethargic  dreams,  found  himself 
pitying  them,  as  civilized  man  vaguely  pities  all  other 
inhabitants  of  the  round  world.  Poor  old  things! 
Sombre  agitations  were  not  theirs.  They  had  nothing 
to  aim  at  or  to  fight  against.  No  devils  and  angels 
played  at  football  with  their  souls.  Their  liaisons  were 
clear,  uncomplicated  by  the  violent  mental  drum-taps 
that  set  the  passions  marching  so  often  at  a  quickstep 
in  the  wrong  direction.  And  Julian  knelt  down  on  the 
hearth-rug  and  laid  his  strong  young  hands  on  their 
broad  heads.  Slowly  they  opened  their  veiled  eyes  and 
blinked.  One,  Rupert,  struck  a  strict  tail  feebly  upon 
the  carpet  in  token  of  acquiescence  and  gratified  good- 
will. Mab  heaved  herself  over  until  she  rested  more 
completely  upon  her  side,  and  allowed  an  enormous  sigh 
to  rumble  through  her  monotonously.  Julian  enjoyed 
that  sigh.  It  made*^^him  for  the  moment  an  optimist, 
as  a  happy  child  makes  a  dreary  old  man  shivering  on 
the  edge  of  death  an  optimist.  Dogs  are  blessed  things. 
That  was  his  thought.  And  just  then  the  door  at  the 
end  of  the  room  opened  quietly,  and  Doctor  Levillier 
came  in,  with  a  cloak  on  and  his  crush-hat  in  his  hand. 

'*  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  Addison,"  he  said. 

The  dogs  shook  themselves  up  onto  their  legs  and 
laid  their  heads  against  his  knees. 

"  Lawler,  please  bring  my  gruel." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Addison,  will  you  have  brandy  or  whisky?  " 

"Whisky,  please,  doctor." 

Lawler  took  his  master's  cloak  and  hat,  and  the  doctor 
came  up  to  the  fire. 

"  So  Valentine  has  gone  home  to  bed?  "  he  said. 

"Yes." 

"  He 's  all  right,  I  hope?  " 

"Yes.  Indeed,  doctor,  I  thought  him  looking  more 
fit  than  usual  to-day,  more  alive  than  I  have  often  seen 
him." 

"  I  noticed  that  last  night,  when  he  revived  from  his 
trance.  It  struck  me  very  forcibly,  very  forcibly  indeed. 
But  you — "  and  the  doctor's  eyes  were  on  Julian's 
face — "look  older  than  your  age  to-night,  my  boy." 


I30  FLAMES 

He  sat  down  and  lit  a  cigar.  The  mastiffs  coiled 
themselves  at  his  feet  rapturously.  They  sighed,  and  he 
sighed  too,  quietly  in  satisfaction.  He  loved  the  one 
hour  before  midnight,  the  hour  of  perfect  rest  for  him. 
Putting  his  feet  on  Rupert's  back,  he  went  on: 

*'  Last  night's  events  upset  you  seriously,  I  see,  young 
and  strong  though  you  are.  But  the  most  muscular  men 
are  more  often  the  prey  of  their  nervous  systems  than 
most  people  are  aware.  Spend  a  few  quiet  days.  Fence 
in  the  morning.  Ride  —  out  in  the  country,  not  in  the 
Park.  Get  off  your  horse  now  and  then,  tie  him  up  at  a 
lych-gate  and  sit  in  a  village  church.  Listen  to  the 
amateur  organist  practising  'Abide  with  me,'  and  the 
*01d  Hundredth,'  on  the  Leiblich  Gedacht  and  the  Dul- 
ciana,  with  the  bourdon  on  the  pedals.  There  's  nothing 
like  that  for  making  life  seem  a  slow  stepper  instead  of 
a  racer.  And  take  Valentine  witfi  you.  I  should  like 
to  sit  with  him  in  a  church  at  twilight,  when  the  rooks 
were  going  home,  and  the  organ  was  droning.  Ah,  well, 
but  I  must  not  think  of  holidays." 

*'  Doctor,  I  like  your  prescription.  Yes;  I  am  feeling 
a  bit  out  of  sorts  to-night.  Last  night,  you  see  —  and 
then  to-day," 

*'  Surely,  Addison,  surely  you  have  n't  been  sitting — 
but  no,  forgive  me.  I 've  got  your  promise.  Well,  what 
is  it?" 

Julian  replied  quickly: 

*'That  man  I  told  you  about,  Marr,  is  dead." 

Doctor  Levillier  looked  decidedly  startled.  Julian's 
frequent  allusions  to  Marr  and  evident  strange  interest 
in  the  man,  had  impressed  him  as  it  had  impressed  Val- 
entine.    However,  he  only  said: 

"  Heart  disease?  " 

**  I  do  n't  know.     There  is  going  to  be  an  inquest." 

♦'When  did  he  die?  " 

**  Last  night,  or  rather  at  four  in  the  morning;  just 
as  Valentine  came  out  of  his  trance,  it  must  have  been. 
Do  n't  you  remember  the  clock  striking?" 

"  Certainly,  I  do.  But  why  do  you  connect  the  two 
circumstances?" 

"  Doctor,  how  can  you  tell  that  I  do?  " 


THE    HARLEY   STREET   EPISODE      131 

**By  your  expression,  the  tone  of  your  voice." 

'*  You  are  right.  Somehow  I  can't  help  connecting 
them.  I  told  Valentine  so  to-night.  He  has  been  with 
me  to  see  Marr's  body." 

"You  have  just  come  from  that  deathbed  now? " 

♦'Yes." 

Julian  sketched  rapidly  the  events  of  the  European 
Hotel,  but  he  left  to  the  last  the  immense  impression 
made  upon  him  by  the  expression  of  the  dead  man. 

"  He  looked  so  happy,  so  good,  that  at  first  I  could 
not  recognize  him,"  he  said.  "  His  face,  dead,  was  the 
most  absolutely  direct  contradiction  possible  of  his  face, 
alive.      He  was  not  the  same  man." 

"The  man  was  gone,  you  see,  Addison." 

"  Yes.  But,  then,  what  was  it  which  remained  to  work 
this  change  in  the  body?  " 

"  Death  gives  a  strange  calm.  The  relaxing  of  sinews, 
the  droop  of  limbs  and  features,  the  absolute  absence  of 
motion,  of  breathing,  work  up  an  impression." 

"But  there  was  something  more  here, — more  than 
peace.  There  was  a  —  well,  a  strong  happiness  and  a 
goodness.  And  Marr  had  always  struck  me  as  an  atro- 
ciously bad  lot.      I  think  I  told  you." 

The  doctor  sat  musing.  Lawler  came  in  with  the 
tray,  on  which  was  a  small  basin  of  gruel  and  soda-water 
bottles,  a  decanter  of  whisky,  and  a  tall  tumbler. 
Julian  mixed  himself  a  drink,  and  the  doctor,  still  medi- 
tatively, took  the  basin  of  gruel  onto  his  knees.  As  he 
sipped  it,  he  looked  a  strange,  little,  serious  ascetic,  sit- 
ting there  in  the  light  from  the  wax  candles,  his  shining 
boots  planted  gently  on  the  broad  back  of  the  slumber- 
ing mastiff,  his  light  eyes  fixed  on  the  fire.  He  did  not 
speak  again  until  he  was  half  way  through  his  gruel. 
Then  he  said: 

"  And  you  know  absolutely  nothing  of  Marr's  past 
history?  " 

"No;  nothing." 

"  I  gather  from  all  you  have  told  me  that  it  would  be 
worthy  of  study.  If  I  knew  it  I  might  understand  the 
startling  change  from  the  aspect  of  evil  to  the  aspect  of 
good  at  death.     I  believe  the  man   must  have   been   far 


133  FLAMES 

less  evil  than  you  thought  him,  for  dead  faces  express 
something  that  was  always  latent,  if  not  known,  in  the 
departed  natures.  Ignorantly,  you  possibly  attributed 
to  Marr  a  nature  far  more  horrible  than  he  ever  really 
possessed." 

But  Julian  answered: 

*'  I  feel  absolutely  convinced  that  at  the  time  I  knew 
him  he  was  one  of  the  greatest  rips,  one  of  the  most 
merciless  men  in  London.  I  never  felt  about  any  man 
as  I  did  about  him!  And  he  impressed  others  in  the 
same  way." 

*'I  wish  I  had  seen  him,"  Doctor  Levillier  said. 

An  idea,  suggested  by  Julian's  last  remark,  suddenly 
struck  him. 

**  He  conveyed  a  strong  impression  of  evil,  you  say?  " 

"Yes." 

"  How?     In  what  way,  exactly?  ' 

Julian  hesitated, 

"It's  difficult  to  say,"  he  answered.  "Awfully  dif- 
ficult to  put  such  a  thing  into  words.  He  interested  me. 
I  felt  that  he  had  a  great  power  of  intellect,  or  of  will, 
or  something.  But  in  every  way  he  suggested  a  bad,  a 
damnably  bad,  character.  A  woman  said  to  me  once 
about  him  that  it  was  like  an  emanation." 

"Ah!" 

The  doctor  finished  his  gruel  and  put  down  the  basin 
on  the  table  beside  him. 

"  By  the  way,  where  did  Marr  live?  Anywhere  in 
my  direction?  Would  he,  for  instance,  go  home  from 
Piccadilly,  or  the  theatres,  by  Regent  Street?  " 

"  I  do  n't  know  at  all  where  he  lived. " 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  him  with  animals, — with  dogs, 
for  instance?  " 

"No." 

"If  he  had  been  as  evil  as  you  suppose,  any  dog 
would  have  avoided  him." 

"Well,  but  dogs  avoid  perfection  too." 

"Hardly,  Addison." 

"  But  Rip  and  Valentine !  " 

The  remark  struck  the  doctor;  that  was  obvious.  He 
pushed  his  right   foot  slowly   backwards   and  forwards 


THE    HARLEY   STREET   EPISODE      133 

on  Rupert's  back,  rucking  up  the   dog's    loose  skin   in 
heavy  folds. 

"Yes,"  he  said;  "Rip  is  rather  an  inexplicable  beg- 
gar. But  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  he  hasn't  got  over 
his  horror  of  Valentine  to-day?  " 

"This  afternoon  he  was  worse  than  ever.  If  Valen- 
tine had  touched  him,  I  believe  he  would  have  gone 
half  mad.      I  had  to  put  him  out  of  the  room." 

"H'm!" 

"Is  n't  it  unaccountable?" 

'  *  I  must  say  that  it  is.  Dogs  are  such  faithful  wretches. 
If  Rupert  and  Mab  were  to  turn  against  me  like  that  I 
believe  it  would  strike  at  my  heart  more  fiercely  than 
the  deed  of  any  man  could. " 

He  bent  down  and  ran  his  hand  over  Rupert's  heaving 
back. 

"The  cheap  satirist,"  he  said,  "  is  forever  comparing 
the  fickleness  of  men  with  the  faithfulness  of  animals, 
but  I  do  n't  mean  to  do  that.  I  have  a  great  belief  in 
some  human  natures,  and  there  are  many  men  whom  I 
could,  and  would,  implicitly  trust." 

"  There  is  one,  doctor,  whom  we  both  know." 

"  Cresswell.  Yes.  I  could  trust  him  through  thick 
and  thin.     And  yet  his  own  dog  flies  at  him." 

Doctor  Levillier  returned  to  that  fact,  as  if  it  puzzled 
him  so  utterly  that  he  could  not  dismiss  it  from  his 
mind. 

"There  must  be  some  curious,  subtle  reason  for 
that,"  he  said;  "yet  with  all  my  intimate  and  affection- 
ate knowledge  of  dogs  I  cannot  divine  it.  Watch  Rip 
carefully  when  he  is  not  with  Cresswell.  Look  after  his 
health.  Notice  if  he  seems  natural  and  happy.  Does 
he  eat  as  usual?  " 

"Rather.     He  did  to-day." 

"  And  he  seems  contented  with  you?" 

"Quite." 

"Well,  all  I  can  say  is,  that  Rip  doesn't  seem  to 
possess  a  dog  nature.      He  is  uncanny." 

"  Uncanny,"  Julian  said,  seizing  on  the  word.  "  But 
everything  has  become  uncanny  within  the  last  few  days. 
Upon  my   word,  when  I  look  back  into  the  past  of,  say. 


134  FLAMES 

a  fortnight  ago,  I  ask  myself  whether  I  am  a  fool,  ot 
dreaming,  or  whether  my  health  is  going  to  the  deuce. 
London  seems  different.  I  look  on  things  strangely.  I 
fancy,  I  imagine  —  " 

He  broke  off.     Then  he  said : 

"By  Jove,  doctor,  if  half  the  men  I  know  at  White's 
could  see  into  my  mind  they  would  think  me  fitted  for  a 
lunatic  asylum." 

"  It  does  n't  matter  to  you  what  half  the  men,  or  the 
whole  of  the  men  at  White's  think,  so  long  as  you  keep  a 
cool  head  and  a  good  heart.  But  it  is  as  you  say.  You 
and  Valentine  have  run,  as  a  train  runs  into  the  Black 
Country,  into  an  unwholesome  atmosphere.  In  a  day  or 
two  probably  your  lungs,  which  have  drawn  it  in,  will 
expel  it  again." 

He  smiled  rather  whimsically.     Then  he  said: 

"You  know,  Addison,  men  talk  of  their  strength,  and 
are  inclined  to  call  women  nervous  creatures,  but  the 
nerves  play  tricks  among  male  muscles.  Yes,  you  want 
the  foils,  the  bicycle,  the  droning  organ,  and  the  village 
church.  I  advise  you  to  go  out  of  town  for  a  week. 
Forget  Marr,  a  queer  fish  evidently,  with  possibly  a 
power  of  mesmerism.  And  do  n't  ask  Valentine  to  go 
away  with  you." 

The  last  remark  surprised  Julian. 

"  But  why  not?  "  he  asked. 

"  Merely  because  he  is  intimately  connected  with  the 
events  that  have  turned  you  out  of  your  usual,  your 
right  course.  I  see  that  your  mind  is  moving  in  a  rather 
narrow  circle,  which  contains,  besides  yourself,  two 
people  only,  Marr  and  Cresswell. " 

"  Darkness  and  light.  Yes,  it's  true.  How  rotten 
of  me,"  Julian  exclaimed,  like  a  schoolboy.  "  I 'm  like 
a  squirrel  in  a  cage,  going  round  and  round.  That 's  just 
it.  Valentine  and  Marr  are  in  that  cursed  circle  of  our 
sittings,  and  so  I  insanely  connect  them  with  one  another. 
I  actually  began  to  think  to-night  that  Marr  died,  poor 
fellow,  because — well — " 

"Yes." 

"  Oh,  it  *s  too  ridiculous,  that  his  death  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  our  last  sitting.     Supposing,  as  you  say, 


THE    HARLEY   STREET   EPISODE      135 

he  had  a  hypnotic  power  of  any  kind.  Could — could  its 
exercise  cause  injury  to  his  health?  " 

But  the  doctor  ignored  the  question  in  his  quiet  and 
yet  very  complete  and  self-possessed  manner. 

*' Marr  and  Cresswell  never  met,  "he  said.  "It  is 
folly  to  connect  them  together.  It  is,  as  you  said,"  and 
he  laughed,  "rotten  of  you.     Go  away  to-morrow. " 

'*  I  will,  you  autocratic  doctor.  What  fee  do  I  owe 
you? " 

"Your  friendship,  my  boy." 

Dr.  Levillier  sat  lower  in  his  chair,  and  they  smoked 
in  silence,  both  of  them  revelling  in  the  warm  peace  and 
the  ease  of  this  night-hour.  Since  he  had  come  into  the 
Harley  Street  house  Julian  had  been  much  happier.  His 
perturbation  had  gradually  evaporated  until  now  scarcely 
a  vestige  of  it  remained.  The  little  doctor's  talk,  above 
all  the  sight  of  his  calm,  thoughtful  face  and  the  aspect 
of  his  calm,  satisfied  room,  gave  the  coup  de  grace  to  the 
uneasiness  of  a  spurious  and  ill-omened  excitement. 
When  the  power  of  wide  medical  knowledge  is  joined  to 
the  power  of  goodness  and  of  umbrageous  intellectuality, 
a  doctor  is,  among  all  men,  the  man  to  lay  the  ghosts 
that  human  nature  is  perpetually  at  the  pains  to  set 
walking  in  their  shrouds  to  cause  alarm.  All  Julian's 
ghosts  were  laid.  He  smoked  on  and  grew  to  feel  per- 
fectly natural  and  comfortable.  The  dogs  echoed  and 
emphasized  all  the  healing  power  of  their  small  and 
elderly  master.  As  they  lay  sleeping,  a  tangle  of  large 
limbs  and  supine  strength,  the  fire  shone  over  them  till 
their  fawn-coloured  coats  gleamed  almost  like  satin 
touched  with  gold.  The  delightful  sanctity  of  un- 
measured confidence,  unmeasured  satisfaction,  sang  in 
their  gentle  and  large-hearted  snores,  which  rose  and 
fell  with  the  regularity  of  waves  of  the  sea.  Now  and 
then  one  of  them  slowly  stretched  a  leg  or  expanded  the 
toes  of  a  foot,  as  if  intent  on  presenting  a  larger  surface 
of  sensation  to  the  embrace  of  comfort  and  of  affection. 
And  they,  so  it  seemed  to  Julian,  kept  the  pleasant 
silence  now  come  into  existence  between  him  and  the 
doctor  alive.  That  silence  rested  him  immensely.  In 
it  the  two   cigars  diminished  steadily,  steadily   as   the 


136  FLAMES 

length  of  a  man's  life,  but  glowing  to  the  very  end.  And 
the  grey  ashes  dropped  away  of  their  own  accord,  and 
Julian's  mind  shed  its  grey  ashes  too  and  glowed  serenely. 
The  dogs  expanded  their  warm  bodies  on  the  hearth,  and 
his  nature  expanded  in  a  vague,  wide-stretching  gener- 
osity of  mute  evening  emotion. 

"How  comfortable  this  is,  doctor,"  he  murmured  at 
last. 

"Yes.  It  's  a  good  hour,"  the  doctor  replied,  letting 
the  words  go  slowly  from  his  lips.  "I  wish  I  could  give 
to  all  the  poor  creatures  in  this  city  just  one  good  hour. " 

They  smoked  their  cigars  out. 

"I  ought  to  go,"  Julian  said  lazily. 

"No.  Have  one  more.  I  know  it  is  dangerous  to 
prolong  a  pleasure.  It  loses  its  savour.  But  I  think, 
Addison,  to-night,  you  and  I  can  get  no  harm  from  the 
experiment." 

He  handed  Julian  the  cigar-box. 

"We  won't  stir  up  the  dogs  for  another  half-hour," 
he  added,  looking  at  their  happiness  with  a  shining  satis- 
faction.     "  Here  are  the  matches.     Light  up." 

Julian  obeyed,  and  they  began  the  delightful  era  of 
the  second  cigar,  and  sank  a  little  deeper  down,  surely, 
into  serenity  and  peace.  Occasional  coals  dropping  into 
the  fender  with  a  hot  tick,  tick,  chirrupped  a  lullaby  to 
the  four  happy  companions.  And  the  men  learnt  a  fine 
silence  from  the  fine  silence  of  the  dogs. 

Half  way  through  the  second  cigar  Rupert  shifted 
under  his  master's  patent-leather  boots  and  raised  his 
huge  head.  His  eyes  blinked  out  of  their  sleep,  then 
ceased  to  blink  and  became  attentive.  Then  his  ears, 
which  had  been  lying  down  on  each  side  of  his  head  in 
the  suavest  attitude  which  such  features  of  a  dog  can 
assume,  lifted  themselves  up  and  pointed  grimly  forward 
as  he  listened  to  something.  His  flaccid  legs  contracted 
under  him,  and  the  muscles  of  his  back  quivered.  Mab, 
less  readily  alert,  quickly  caught  the  infection  of  his 
attention,  rolled  over  out  of  her  sideways  position  and 
couched  beside  him.  The  movement  of  the  dogs  was 
not  congenial  to  the  doctor.  Rupert's  curious  back, 
alert  under  his  feet,  communicated  an  immediate  sense 


THE    HARLEY   STREET   EPISODE      137 

of  disquiet  to  the  very  centre  of  his  being.  He  said  to 
Julian: 

"The  acuteness  of  animal  senses  has  its  drawbacks. 
These  dogs  must  have  heard  some  sound  in  the  street 
that  is  entirely  inaudible  to  us.  Well,  Rupert,  what  is 
it?     Lie  down  again  and  go  to  sleep." 

Stooping  forward  he  put  his  hand  on  the  dog's  neck, 
and  gave  him  a  push,  expecting  him  to  yield  readily,  and 
tumble  over  onto  the  warm  rug  to  sleep  once  more. 
But  Rupert  resisted  his  hand,  and  instead,  got  up,  and 
stood  at  attention.  Mab  immediately  followed  his  ex- 
ample. 

"What  are  they  after,  doctor?  "  said  Julian. 

As  he  spoke  a  bell  rang  in  the  house. 

"  Nemesis  for  prolonging  the  pleasure,"  Levillier 
said.      *' A  summons  to  a  patient,  no  doubt." 

As  if  in  reply  to  the  twitter  of  the  bell,  Rupert  sprang 
forward  and  barked.  He  remained  beside  the  door, 
waiting,  while  Mab  barked  too,  nearer  the  fire.  The  bell 
sounded  again,  and  the  footstep  of  Lawler,  who  always 
sat  up  as  late  as  his  master,  was  heard  on  the  stairs 
from  the  servants'  part  of  the  house.  It  passed  them  on 
its  errand  to  the  front  door,  but  during  its  passage  the 
excitement  of  the  two  dogs  rapidly  increased.  They  be- 
gan to  bark  furiously  and  to  bristle. 

"  I  never  saw  them  like  this  before,"  the  doctor  said, 
not  without  anxiety. 

As  he  spoke  Lawler  opened  the  hall  door.  They  heard 
the  latch  go  and  the  faint  voice  of  somebody  in  colloquy 
with  him.  For  the  dogs  were  now  abruptly  silent,  but 
displayed  the  most  curious  savage  intentness,  showing 
their  teeth,  and  standing  each  by  the  door  as  if  sentinels 
on  guard.  The  colloquy  ceasing,  steps  again  sounded  in 
the  hall,  but  more  than  Lawler's.  Evidently  the  man 
was  returning  towards  the  room  accompanied  by  some- 
body from  the  street.  The  doctor  was  keenly  observing 
the  mastiffs,  and  just  as  Lawler's  hand  struck  upon  the 
handle  of  the  door  to  turn  it,  he  suddenly  called  out 
sharply: 

"  Lawler,  you  are  not  to  open  the  door!  " 

And  as  he  called,  the  doctor  ran  forward  between  the 


138  FLAMES 

two  dogs  and  caught  their  collars  in  his  two  hands. 
They  tugged  and  leaped  to  get  away,  but  he  held  on. 
The  surprised  voice  of  the  obedient  Lawler  was  heard  on 
the  hither  side  of  the  door,  saying: 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir." 

The  doctor  said  hastily  to  Julian: 

"These  dogs  will  tear  the  person  who  has  just  come 
into  the  house  to  pieces  if  we  do  n't  take  care.  Catch  on 
to  Mab,  Addison," 

Julian  obeyed,  and  the  dog  was  like  live  iron  with 
determination  under  his  grasp. 

"Some  one  is  with  you,  Lawler,"  the  doctor  said. 
**  Does  he  wish  to  see  me?  " 

"  If  you  please,  sir,  it  is  Mr.  Cresswell,  Mr.  Valentine 
come  back  for  Mr,  Addison," 

Julian  felt  himself  go  suddenly  pale. 


CHAPTER   VI 

THE   STRENGTH   OF  THE   SPRING 

Rather  reluctantly,  Julian  acted  on  the  advice  of 
Doctor  Levillier  and  went  out  of  town  for  a  week  on  the 
following  day.  He  took  his  way  to  the  sea,  and  tried  to 
feel  normal  in  a  sailing-boat  with  a  gnarled  and  corru- 
gated old  salt  for  his  only  companion.  But  his  success 
was  only  partial,  for  while  his  body  gave  itself  to  the 
whisper  of  the  ungoverned  breezes,  while  his  hands  held 
the  ropes,  and  his  eyes  watched  the  subtle  proceedings 
of  the  weather,  and  his  ears  listened  to  the  serial  stories 
of  the  waves,  and  to  the  conversational  peregrinations  of 
his  Ancient  Mariner  about  the  China  Seas  in  bygone 
days,  his  mind  was  still  in  London,  still  busily  concerned 
itself  with  the  very  things  that  should  now  undergo  a  sea 
change  and  vanish  in  ozone.  Recent  events  oppressed 
him,  to  the  occasional  undoing  of  the  old  salt,  well  accus- 
tomed to  the  seasick  reverence  of  his  despairing  clients 
on  board  the  Star  of  the  Sea.  When  the  mind  of  a  man 
has  once  fallen  into  the  habit  of  prancing  in  a  circle  like 
a  circus  horse,  it  is  difficult  to  drive  it  back  into  the  pub- 
lic streets,  to  make  it  trot  serenely  forward  in  its  ordi- 
nary ways.  And  Julian  had  with  him  a  ring-master  in 
the  person  of  the  ignorant  Rip.  Whenever  his  eyes  fell 
on  Rip,  curled  uneasily  in  the  bottom  of  the  swinging 
boat,  he  went  at  a  tangent  back  to  Harley  Street,  and 
the  strange  finale  of  his  evening  with  the  doctor. 

It  had  been  a  curious  tableau  divided  by  a  door. 
Levillier  and  he  stood  on  one  side  tugging  mightily  at 
the  intent  mastiffs,  which  strained  at  their  collars,  drop- 
ping beads  of  foam  from  their  grinning  jaws,  savages, 
instead  of  calm  companions.  On  the  other  side,  in  the 
hall,  Lawler  and  Valentine  paused  in  amazement,  and  a 
colloquy  shot  to  and  fro  through  the  wooden  barrier. 

139 


I40  FLAMES 

On  hearing  the  name  of  Valentine  mentioned  by  the  but- 
ler, the  doctor  had  cast  an  instant  glance  of  unbounded 
amazement  upon  Julian.  And  Julian  had  returned  it, 
feeling  in  his  heart  the  dawning  of  an  inexplicable 
trouble. 

"Is  anything  the  matter?"  Valentine's  voice  had 
asked. 

"  No,"  said  the  doctor  in  reply.  "  But  please  go  into 
the  dining-room.  We  will  come  to  you  there.  And 
Lawler  —  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"When  you  have  shown  Mr.  Cresswell  to  the  dining- 
room,  be  careful  to  shut  the  door,  and  to  keep  it  shut  till 
I  come." 

"Yes,  sir." 

The  butler's  well-trained  voice  had  vibrated  with  sur- 
prise and  Julian  had  found  himself  mechanically  smiling 
as  he  noted  this.  Then  the  footsteps  of  servant  and  vis- 
itor had  retreated.  Presently  a  door  was  heard  to  shut. 
Lawler  returned,  and  was  passing  discreetly  by,  to  wonder, 
in  his  pantry,  if  his  master  had  gone  mad,  when  the  doc- 
tor again  called  to  him. 

"Go  downstairs,  Lawler,  and  in  a  moment  I  shall 
bring  the  dogs  to  you." 

"Yes,  sir." 

The  butler's  voice  was  now  almost  shrill  with  scarcely 
governable  astonishment,  and  his  footsteps  seemed  to 
tremble  uneasily  upon  the  stairs  as  he  retired.  Then 
the  doctor  went  to  a  corner  of  the  room  and  took  down 
from  a  hook  a  whip  with  a  heavy  thong. 

"  I  have  n't  had  to  use  this  since  they  were  both  pup- 
pies," he  said,  with  a  side  glance  at  the  dogs.  "  Now, 
Addison,  keep  hold  of  Mab  and  go  in  front  of  me  down 
the  servants'  stairs.  If  the  dogs  once  get  out  of  hand 
we  shall  have  trouble  in  the  house  to-night." 

The  door  was  opened,  and  then  a  veritable  affray 
began.  The  animals  seemed  half  mad.  They  tore  at 
their  collars,  and  struggled  furiously  to  break  loose, 
snarling  and  even  snapping,  their  great  heads  turned  in 
the  direction  of  the  dining-room.  The  doctor,  firmest 
.as  well  as  kindest  of  men,  recognized   necessity,    and 


THE   STRENGTH    OF   THE   SPRING     141 

used  the  whip  unsparingly,  lashing  the  animals  through 
the  door  to  the  servants'  quarters,  and  down  the  stairs. 
It  was  a  violent  procession  to  the  lower  regions.  Julian 
could  not  get  it  out  of  his  head.  Entangled  among  the 
leaping  dogs  on  the  narrow  stairway,  he  had  a  sense  of 
whirling  in  the  eddies  of  a  stream,  driven  from  this  side 
to  the  other.  His  arms  were  nearly  pulled  out  of  their 
sockets.  The  shriek  of  the  lash  curling  over  and  around 
the  dogs,  the  dim  vision  of  the  doctor's  compressed  lips 
and  eyes  full  of  unaccustomed  fire,  the  damp  foam  on  his 
hands  as  he  rocked  from  one  wall  to  the  other,  amid  a 
dull  music  of  growls,  and  fierce,  low  barks,  came  back 
to  him  now  as  he  trimmed  the  sails  to  catch  the  unde- 
cided winds,  or  felt  the  tiller  leap  under  his  hold.  Each 
moment  he  had  expected  to  be  bitten,  but  somehow  they 
all  tumbled  together  unhurt  into  Lawler's  pantry,  where 
they  found  that  factotum  standing  grim  and  wire-strung 
with  anticipation.  Beyond  the  pantry  were  the  dogs' 
night  quarters,  and  they  were  quickly  driven  into  them 
and  shut  up.  But  they  still  bounded  and  beat  against 
the  door,  and  presently  began  to  howl  a  vain  chorale. 

"Lord,  Lord,  sir!  what's  come  to  them?"  Lawler 
exclaimed. 

His  fat  face  had  become  as  white  as  a  sheet,  and  the 
doctor  was  scarcely  less  pale  as  he  leaned  against  the 
dresser,  whip  in  hand,  drawing  panting  breaths. 

"I  can't  tell.      They  will  be  all  right  in  a  minute." 

He  pulled  himself  up. 

"Go  to  bed  now  if  you  like,  Lawler,"  he  said,  rather 
abruptly.      "  Come,  Addison." 

They  regained  the  hall,  and  made  their  way  to  Val- 
entine. He  was  sitting  by  the  dining-table  in  a  watchful 
attitude,  and  sprang  hastily  up  as  they  came  in. 

"My  dear  doctor,"  he  said,  "what  a  pandemonium! 
I  nearly  came  to  your  assistance." 

"It's  very  lucky  you  didn't,  Cresswell,"  the  doctor 
answered,  almost  grimly. 

"Why?" 

"  Because  if  you  had  you  might  chance  to  be  a  dead 
man  by  this  time." 

Out  on  the  sea,  under  the  streaming  clouds  that  fied 


142  FLAMES 

before  the  wind,  Julian  recalled  the  strange  terseness  of 
that  reply,  and  the  perhaps  stranger  silence  that  followed 
it.  For  Valentine  had  made  no  comment,  had  asked  for 
no  explanation.  He  had  simply  dropped  the  subject,  and 
the  three  men  had  remained  together  for  a  few  minutes, 
constrained  and  ill  at  ease.     Then  the  doctor  had  said: 

"  Let  us  go  back  now  to  my  room. " 

Valentine  and  he  assented,  and  got  upon  their  feet  to 
follow  him,  but  when  he  opened  the  door  there  came  up 
from  the  servants'  quarters  the  half-strangled  howling 
of  the  mastiffs.  Involuntarily  Dr.  Levillier  paused  to 
listen,  his  hand  behind  his  ear.  Then  he  turned  to  the 
young  men,  and  held  out  his  right  hand. 

"  Good-night,"  he  said.  "  I  must  go  down  to  them, 
or  there  will  be  a  summons  applied  for  against  me  in  the 
morning  by  one  of  my  neighbours." 

And  they  let  themselves  out  while  he  retreated  once 
more  down  the  stairs. 

The  drive  home  had  been  a  silent  one.  Only  when 
Julian  was  bidding  Valentine  good-night  had  he  found  a 
tongue  to  say  to  his  friend: 

"The  devil's  in  all  this,  Valentine." 

And  Valentine  had  merely  nodded  with  a  smile  and 
driven  off. 

Now,  in  the  sea  solitude  that  was  to  be  a  medicine  to 
his  soul,  Julian  went  round  and  round  in  his  mental 
circus,  treading  ever  the  same  sawdust  under  foot,  hear- 
ing ever  the  same  whip  crack  to  send  him  forward.  His 
isolation  bent  him  upon  himself,  and  the  old  salt's  hoarse 
murmurings  of  the  "Chiney  "  seas  in  no  way  drew  him 
to  a  healthier  outlook.  Why  Valentine  returned  for  him 
that  night  he  did  not  know.  That  might  have  been 
merely  the  prompting  of  a  vagrant  impulse.  Julian  cursed 
that  impulse,  on  account  of  the  circumstances  to  which 
it  directly  led;  for  there  was  a  peculiar  strain  of  enmity 
in  them  which  had  affected,  and  continued  to  affect,  him 
most  disagreeably.  To  behold  the  instinctive  hostility 
of  another  towards  a  person  whom  one  loves  is  offen- 
sively grotesque  to  the  observer,  and  at  moments  Julian 
hated  the  doctor's  mastiffs,  and  even  hated  the  uncon- 
scious Rip,  who  lay,  in  a  certain  shivering  discomfort 


THE   STRENGTH    OF  THE   SPRING     143 

and  apprehension,  seeking  sleep  with  the  determination 
of  sorrow.  There  are  things,  feelings,  and  desires, 
which  should  surely  be  kicked  out  of  men  and  dogs. 
Such  a  thing,  beyond  doubt,  was  a  savage  hatred  of  Val- 
entine. What  prompted  it,  and  whence  it  came,  were 
merely  mysteries,  which  the  dumbness  of  dogs  must  for- 
ever sustain.  But  what  specially  plunged  Julian  into 
concern  was  the  latent  fear  that  Dr.  Levillier  might  echo 
the  repulsion  of  his  dogs  and  come  to  look  upon  Valen- 
tine with  different  eyes.  Julian's  fine  jealousy  for  his 
friend  sharpened  his  faculties  of  observation  and  of 
deduction,  and  he  had  observed  the  little  doctor's  dry 
reception  of  Valentine  after  the  struggle  on  the  stairs, 
and  his  eager  dismissal  of  them  both  to  the  street  door 
on  the  howling  excuse  that  rose  up  from  the  basement. 
Such  a  mood  might  probably  be  transient,  and  only 
engendered  by  the  fatigue  of  excitement,  or  even  by  the 
physical  exhaustion  attendant  upon  the  preservation  of 
Valentine  from  the  rage  of  Rupert  and  Mab.  Julian  told 
himself  that  to  dwell  upon  it,  or  to  conceive  of  it  as  per- 
manent, was  neither  sensible  nor  acute,  considering  his 
intimate  knowledge  of  the  doctor's  nature,  and  of  his 
firm  friendship  for  Valentine.  That  he  did  continue 
most  persistently  to  dwell  upon  it,  and  with  a  keen  sus- 
picion, must  be  due  to  the  present  desolation  of  his  cir- 
cumstances, and  to  the  vain  babble  of  the  blue-coated 
Methuselah,  whose  intellect  roamed  incessantly  through 
a  marine  past,  peopled  with  love  episodes  of  a  somewhat 
Rabelaisian  character. 

At  the  end  of  five  days  Julian  abruptly  threw  up  the 
sponge  and  returned  to  London,  abandoning  the  old  salt 
to  the  tobacco-chewing,  which  was  his  only  solace  dur- 
ing the  winter  season,  now  fast  drawing  to  a  close.  He 
went  at  once  to  see  Valentine,  who  had  a  narrative  to 
tell  him  concerning  Marr. 

"You  have  probably  read  all  about  Marr  in  the 
papers?"  he  asked,  when  he  met  Julian. 

The  question  came  at  once  with  his  hand-grasp. 

"No,"  Julian  said.  "I  shunted  the  papers,  tried  to 
give  myself  up  entirely  to  the  sea,  as  the  doctor  advised. 
What  has  there  been?  " 


144  FLAMES 

"  Oh,  a  good  deal.  I  may  as  well  tell  it  to  you,  ot 
no  doubt  Lady  Crichton  will.  People  exaggerate  so 
much." 

*'Why — what  is  there  to  exaggerate  about?  " 

"The  inquest  was  held,"  Valentine  answered.  "And 
every  effort  was  made  to  find  the  woman  who  came  with 
Marr  to  the  hotel  and  evaporated  so  mysteriously,  but 
there  was  no  one  to  identify  her.  The  Frenchman  had 
not  noticed  her  features,  and  the  housemaid,  as  you  re- 
member, was  a  fool,  and  could  only  say  she  was  a  com- 
mon-looking person." 

"Well,"  Julian  said,  rather  eagerly,  "but  what  was 
the  cause  of  death?  " 

"  That  was  entirely  obscure.  The  body  seemed  heal- 
thy— at  least  the  various  organs  were  sound.  There  was 
no  obvious  reason  for  death,  and  the  verdict  was,  simply, 
'Died  from  failure  of  the  heart's  action. '  " 

"Vague,  but  comprehensive. " 

"Yes;  I  suppose  we  shall  all  die  strictly  from  the 
same  cause." 

"And  that  is  all?" 

"Not  quite.  It  appears  that  a  description  of  the 
dead  man  got  into  the  papers  and  that  he  was  identified 
by  his  wife,  who  read  the  account  in  some  remote  part 
of  the  country,  took  the  train  to  town,  and  found  that 
Marr  was,  as  she  suspected,  the  man  whom  she  had  mar- 
ried, from  whom  she  had  separated,  and  whose  real  name 
was  Wilson,  the  Wilson  of  a  notorious  newspaper  case. 
Do  you  remember  it?  " 

"  What,  an  action  against  a  husband  for  gross  cruelty, 
for  incredible,  unspeakable  inhumanity — some  time  ago?" 

"Yes.     The  wife  got  a  judicial  separation." 

"  And  that  is  the  history  of  Marr? " 

"  That  is,  such  of  his  history  as  is  known,"  Valentine 
said  in  his  calm  voice. 

While  he  had  been  speaking  his  blue  eyes  had  always 
been  fixed  on  Julian's  face.  When  Julian  looked  up 
they  were  withdrawn. 

"I  always  had  a  feeling  that  Marr  was  secretly  a 
wretch,  a  devil,"  Julian  said  now.  "It  seems  I  was 
right.     What  has  become  of  the  wife?" 


THE   STRENGTH   OF   THE    SPRING     145 

**I  suppose  she  has  gone  back  to  her  country  home. 
Probably  she  is  happy.  Her  first  mate  chastised  her 
with  whips.  To  fulfil  her  destiny  as  a  woman  she  ought 
now  to  seek  another  who  is  fond  of  scorpions." 

"Women  are  strange,"  Julian  said,  voluptuously  gen- 
eralizing after  the  manner  of  young  men. 

Valentine  leaned  forward  as  if  the  sentence  stirred 
some  depth  in  his  mind  and  roused  him  to  a  certain  ex- 
citement. 

"Julian,"  he  exclaimed,  "  are  you  and  I  wasting  our 
lives,  do  you  think?  Since  you  have  been  away  I  have 
thought  again  over  our  conversation  before  we  had  our 
first  sitting.     Do  you  remember  it?  " 

"  Yes,  Valentine." 

"You  said  then  I  had  held  you  back  from  so  much." 

"Yes." 

"And  I  have  been  asking  myself  whether  I  have  not, 
perhaps,  held  you  back,  held  myself  back,  from  all  that 
is  worth  having  in  life." 

Julian  looked  troubled. 

"  From  all  that  is  not  worth  having,  old  boy,"  he  said. 

But  he  looked  troubled.  When  Valentine  spoke  like 
this  he  felt  as  a  man  who  stands  at  a  garden  gate  and 
gazes  out  into  the  world,  and  is  stirred  with  a  thrill  of 
anticipation  and  of  desire  to  leap  out  from  the  green  and 
shadowy  close,  where  trees  are  and  flowers,  into  the  dust 
and  heat  where  passion  hides  as  in  a  nest,  and  unspoken 
things  lie  warm.  Julian  was  vaguely  afraid  of  himself. 
It  is  dangerous  to  lean  on  any  one,  however  strong. 
Having  met  Valentine  on  the  threshold  of  life,  Julian 
had  never  learned  to  walk  alone.  He  trusted  another, 
instead  of  trusting  himself.  He  had  never  forged  his 
own  sword.  When  Siegfried  sang  at  his  anvil  he  sang  a 
song  of  all  the  greatness  of  life.  Julian  was  notably 
strong  as  to  his  muscles.  He  had  arms  of  iron,  and  the 
blood  raced  in  his  veins,  but  he  had  never  forged  his 
sword.  Mistrust  of  himself  was  as  a  phantom  that 
walked  with  him  unless  Valentine  drove  it  away. 

"  I  thought  you  had  got  over  that  absurd  feeling, 
Val,"  he  said.  "I  thought  you  were  content  with  your 
soul." 


146  FLAMES 

"I  think  I  have  ceased  to  be  content,"  said  Valen- 
tine. "  Perhaps  I  have  stolen  a  fragment  of  your 
nature,  Julian,  in  those  dark  nights  in  the  tentroom. 
Since  you  have  been  away  I  have  wondered.  An  extraor- 
dinary sensation  of  bodily  strength,  of  enormous  vigour, 
has  come  to  me.  And  I  want  to  test  the  sensation,  to 
see  if  it  is  founded  upon  fact." 

He  was  sitting  in  a  low  chair,  and  as  he  spoke  he 
slowly  stretched  his  limbs.  It  was  as  if  all  his  body 
yawned,  waking  from  sleep. 

*'  But  how?  "  Julian  asked. 

Already  he  looked  rather  interested  than  troubled. 
At  Valentine's  words  he  too  became  violently  con- 
scious of  his  own  strength,  and  stirred  by  the  wonder  of 
youth  dwelling  in  him. 

"How?  That  is  what  I  wish  to  find  out  by  going 
into  the  world  with  different  eyes.  I  have  been  living  in 
the  arts,  Julian.     But  is  that  living  at  all?  " 

Julian  got  up  and  stood  by  the  fire.  Valentine 
excited  him.  He  leaned  one  arm  on  the  mantelpiece. 
His  right  hand  kept  closing  and  unclosing  as  he  talked. 

"  Such  a  life  is  natural  to  you,"  he  said.  "And  you 
have  made  me  love  it." 

"I  sometimes  wonder,"  responded  Valentine, 
"whether  I  have  not  trained  my  head  to  slay  my  heart. 
Men  of  intellect  are  often  strangely  inhuman.  Besides, 
what  you  call  my  purity  and  my  refinement  are  due  perhaps 
to  my  cowardice.  I  am  called  the  Saint  of  Victoria 
Street  because  I  live  in  a  sort  of  London  cloister  with 
you  for  my  companion,  and  in  the  cloister  I  read  or  I 
give  myself  up  to  music,  and  I  hang  my  walls  with  pic- 
tures, and  I  wonder  at  the  sins  of  men,  and  I  believe  I 
am  that  deadly  thing,  a  Pharisee." 

"But  you  are  perfectly  tolerant." 

"  Am  I?  I  often  find  myself  sneering  at  the  follies  of 
others,  at  what  I  call  their  coarsenesses,  their  wallowing 
in  the  mire." 

"  It  is  wallowing." 

"  And  which  is  most  human,  the  man  who  drives  in  a 
carriage,  or  the  man  who  walks  sturdily  along  the  road, 
and  gets  the  mud  on  his  boots,  and  lets  the  rain  fall  on 


THE    STRENGTH   OF   THE   SPRING     147 

him  and  the  wind  be  his  friend?  I  suspect  it  is  a  fine 
thing  to  be  out  unsheltered  in  a  storm,  Julian." 

Julian's  dark  eyes  were  glowing.  Valentine  spoke 
with  an  unusual,  almost  with  an  electric  warmth,  and 
Julian  was  conscious  of  drawing  very  near  to  him  to- 
night. Always  in  their  friendship,  hitherto,  he  had 
thought  of  Valentine  as  of  one  apart,  walking  at  a  dis- 
tance from  all  men,  even  from  him.  And  he  had  be- 
lieved most  honestly  that  this  very  detachment  had 
drawn  him  to  Valentine  more  than  to  any  other  human 
being.  But  to-night  he  began  suddenly  to  feel  that  to 
be  actually  side  by  side  with  his  friend  would  be  a  very 
glorious  thing.  He  could  never  hope  to  walk  perpetu- 
ally upon  the  vestal  heights.  If  Valentine  did  really 
come  down  towards  the  valley,  what  then?  Just  at  first 
the  idea  had  shocked  him.  Now  he  began  almost  to 
wish  that  it  might  be  so,  to  feel  that  he  was  shaking 
hands  with  Valentine  more  brotherly  than  ever  before. 

"  Extremes  are  wrong,  desolate,  abominable,  I  begin 
to  think,"  Valentine  went  on.  "Angel  and  devil,  both 
should  be  scourged — the  one  to  be  purged  of  excessive 
good,  the  other  of  excessive  evil,  and  between  them, 
midway,  is  man,  natural  man.  Julian,  you  are  natural 
man,  and  you  are  more  right  than  I,  who,  it  seems,  have 
been  educating  you  by  presenting  to  you  for  contempla- 
tion my  own  disease." 

**Well,  but  is  natural  man  worth  much?  That  is  the 
question!     I  do  n't  know. " 

"  He  fights,  and  drinks,  and  loves,  and,  oftener  than 
the  renowned  philosopher  thinks,  he  knows  how  to  die. 
And  then  he  lives  thoroughly,  and  that  is  probably  what 
we  were  sent  into  the  world  to  do." 

"Can't  we  live  thoroughly  without,  say,  the  fighting 
and  the  drinking,  Val?  " 

Valentine  got  up,  too,  as  if  excited,  and  stood  by  the 
fire  by  Julian's  side. 

"Battle  calls  forth  heroism,"  he  said,  "which  else 
would  sleep." 

"  And  drinking? " 

"Leads  to  good  fellowship." 

This  last  remark  was  so  preposterously  unlike  Valen- 


148  FLAMES 

tine  that  Julian  could  not  for  a  moment  accept  it  as  ut- 
tered seriously.  His  mood  changed,  and  he  burst  out 
suddenly  into  a  laugh. 

"You  have  been  taking  me  in  all  the  time,"  he  ex- 
claimed, "  and  I  actually  was  fool  enough  to  think  you 
serious." 

"And  to  agree  with  what  I  was  saying?  " 

Valentine  still  spoke  quite  gravely  and  earnestly,  and 
Julian  began  to  be  puzzled. 

"You  know  I  can  never  help  agreeing  with  you  when 
you  really  mean  anything,"  he  began.  "I  have  proved 
so  often  that  you  are  always  right  in  the  end.  So  your 
real  theory  of  life  must  be  the  true  one:  but  your  real 
theory,  I  know,  is  to  reject  what  most  people  run  after." 

"No  longer  that,  I  fancy,   Julian." 

"But,  then,  what  has  changed  you?  " 

Valentine  met  his  eyes  calmly. 

" I  do  n't  know,"  he  said.      "  Do  you? " 

"I?     How  should  I?" 

"Perhaps  this  change  has  been  growing  within  me 
for  a  long  while.  It  is  difficult  to  say;  but  to-night  my 
nature  culminates.     I  am  at  a  point,  Julian." 

"  Then  you  have  climbed  to  it.  Don't  you  want  to 
stay  there?  " 

"  No  mere  man  can  face  the  weather  on  a  mountain 
peak  forever,  and  life  lies  rather  in  the  plains." 

Valentine  went  over  to  the  window  and  touched  the 
blind.  It  shot  up,  leaving  the  naked  window,  through 
which  the  gas-lamps  of  Victoria  Street  stared  in  the 
night. 

"I  wish,"  he  said,  "that  we,  in  England,  had  the 
fiat  roofs  of  the  East." 

He  thrust  up  the  glass,  and  the   night  air  pushed  in. 

"Come  here,  Julian,"  he  said. 

Julian  obeyed,  wondering  rather.  Valentine  leaned 
a  little  out  on  the  sill  and  made  Julian  lean  beside  him. 
It  was  early  in  the  night  and  the  hum  of  London  was  yet 
loud,  for  the  bees  did  not  sleep,  but  were  still  busy  in 
their  monstrous  hive.  There  was  already  a  gentleness 
of  spring  among  the  discoloured  houses.  Spring  will  not 
be  denied,  even  among  men  who  dwell  in  flats.    The  cabs 


THE    STRENGTH    OF   THE   SPRING     149 

hurried  past,  and  pedestrians  went  by  in  twos  and  threes 
or  solitary;  soldiers  walking  vaguely,  seeking  cheap  pleas- 
ures, or  more  gaily  with  adoring  maidens;  tired  busi- 
ness men;  journeying  towards  Victoria  Station;  a 
desolate  shop-girl,  in  dreary  virtue  defiant  of  mankind, 
but  still  unblessed;  the  Noah's  ark  figure  of  a  police- 
man, tramping  emptily,  standing  wearily  by  turns,  to 
keep  public  order.  Lights  starred  here  and  there  the 
long  line  of  mansions  opposite. 

"I  often  look  out  here  at  night,"  Valentine  said, 
"generally  to  wonder  why  people  live  as  they  do.  When 
I  see  the  soldiers  going  by,  for  instance,  I  have  often 
marvelled  that  they  could  find  any  pleasure  in  the  ser- 
vants, so  often  ugly,  who  hang  on  their  arms,  and 
languish  persistently  at  them  under  cheap  hats  and  dyed 
feathers.  And  I  gaze  at  the  policeman  on  his  beat  and 
pity  him  for  the  dead  routine  in  which  he  stalks,  seldom 
varied  by  the  sordid  capture  of  a  starving  cracksman,  or 
the  triumphant  seizure  of  an  unmuzzled  dog.  The  boys 
selling  evening  papers  seem  to  me  imps  of  desolation, 
screaming  through  life  aimlessly  for  halfpence;  and  the 
cabmen,  creatures  driving  for  ever  to  stations,  yet  never 
able  to  get  into  the  wide  world.  And  yet  they  are  all 
living,  Julian;  that  is  the  thing:  all  having  their  experi- 
ences, all  in  strong  touch  with  humanity.  The  news- 
paper-boy has  got  his  flower-girl  to  give  him  grimy 
kisses;  and  the  cabman  is  proud  of  the  shine  on  his 
harness;  and  the  soldier  glories  in  his  military  faculty  of 
seduction,  and  in  his  quick  capacity  for  getting  drunk 
in  the  glittering  gin-palace  at  the  corner  of  the  street; 
and  the  policeman  hopes  to  take  some  one  up,  and  to  be 
praised  by  a  magistrate;  and  in  those  houses  opposite  in- 
trigues are  going  on,  and  jealousy  is  being  born,  and 
men  and  women  are  quarrelling  over  trifles  and  making 
it  up  again,  and  children — what  matter  if  legitimate  or 
illegitimate? — are  cooing  and  crying,  and  boys  are  wak- 
ing to  the  turmoil  of  manhood,  and  girls  are  dreaming 
of  the  things  they  dare  not  pretend  to  know.  Why 
should  I  be  like  a  bird  hovering  over  it  all?  Why 
should  not  I — and  you — be  in  it?  If  I  can  only  cease  to 
be  as  I  hasre  always  been,  I  can  recreate  London  for  my- 


150  FLAMES 

self,  and  make  it  a  live  city,  fearing  neither  its  vices  nor 
its  tears.  I  have  made  you  fear  them,  Julian.  I  have 
done  you  an  injury.  Let  us  be  quiet,  and  feel  the  rustle 
of  spring  over  the  gas-lamps,  and  hear  the  pulsing  of  the 
hearts  around  us." 

He  put  his  arm  through  Julian's  as  they  leaned  out 
on  the  sill  of  the  window,  and  to  Julian  his  arm  was 
like  a  line  of  living  fire,  compelling  that  which  touched  it 
to  a  speechless  fever  of  excitement.  Was  this  man 
Valentine?  Julian's  pulses  throbbed  and  hammered  as 
he  looked  upon  the  street,  and  he  seemed  to  see  all  the 
passers-by  with  eyes  from  which  scales  had  fallen.  If 
to  die  should  be  nothing  to  the  wise  man,  to  live  should 
be  much.  Underneath,  two  drunken  men  passed,  em- 
bracing each  other  by  the  shoulders.  They  sang  in 
snatches  and  hiccoughed  protestations  of  eternal  friend- 
ship. Valentine  watched  their  wavering  course  with  no 
disgust.  His  blue  eyes  even  seemed  to  praise  them  as 
they  went. 

"  Those  men  are  more  human  than  I,"  he  slowly  said, 
"Why  should  I  condemn  them?  " 

And,  as  if  under  the  influence  of  a  spell,  Julian  found 
himself  thinking  of  the  wandering  ruffians  as  fine  fellows, 
full  of  warmth  of  heart  and  generous  feeling.  A  boy 
and  girl  went  by.  Neither  could  have  been  more  than 
sixteen  years  old.  They  paused  by  a  lamp-post,  and  the 
girl  openly  kissed  the  boy.  He  sturdily  endured  the 
compliment,  staring  firmly  at  her  pale  cheeks  and  tired 
eyes.  Then  the  girl  walked  away,  and  he  stood  alone 
till  she  was  out  of  sight.  Eventually  he  walked  off 
slowly,  singing  a  plantation  song:  "I  want  you,  my 
honey;  yes,  I  do!  "  Valentine  and  Julian  had  watched 
and  listened,  and  now  Valentine,  moving  round  on  the 
window-ledge  till  he  faced  Julian,  said: 

"That  is  it,  Julian,  put  in  the  straightforward  music- 
hall  way.  People  are  happy  because  they  want  things; 
yes,  they  do.  It  is  a  philosophy  of  life.  That  boy  has 
a  life  because  he  wants  that  girl,  and  she  wants  him. 
And  you,  Julian,  you  want  a  thousand  things — " 

"  Not  since  I  have  known  you,"  Julian  said. 


THE    STRENGTH   OF   THE    SPRING     151 

He  felt  curiously  excited  and  troubled.  His  arm  was 
still  linked  in  Valentine's.  Slowly  he  withdrew  it. 
Valentine  shut  down  the  window  and  they  came  back  to 
the  fire. 

"  You  know,"  Valentine  said,  **  that  it  is  possible  for 
two  influences  to  work  one  upon  the  other,  and  for  each 
to  convert  the  other.  I  begin  to  think  that  your  nature 
has  triumphed  over  mine." 

"What?"  Julian  said,  in  frank  amazement.  The 
Philistines  could  not  have  been  more  astounded  when 
Samson  pulled  down  the  pillars. 

"  I  have  taught  you,  as  you  say,  to  die  to  the  ordinary 
man's  life,  Julian.  But  what  if  you  have  taught  me  to 
live  to  it?  " 

Julian  did  not  answer  for  a  moment.  He  was  won- 
dering whether  Valentine  could  possibly  be  serious.  But 
his  face  was  serious,  even  eager.  There  was  an  unwonted 
stain  of  red  on  his  smooth,  usually  pale  cheeks.  A 
certain  wild  boyishness  had  stolen  over  him,  a  reckless 
devil  danced  in  his  blue  eyes.  Julian  caught  the  infec- 
tion of  his  mood. 

"And  what 's  my  lesson?  "  Julian  said. 

His  voice  sounded  thick  and  harsh.  There  was  a 
surge  of  blood  through  his  brain  and  a  prickly  heat 
behind  his  eyeballs.  Suddenly  a  notion  took  him  that 
Valentine  had  never  been  so  magnificent  as  now, — now 
when  a  new  fierceness  glittered  in  his  expression,  and  a 
wild  wave  of  humanity  ran  through  him  like  a  surging 
tide. 

"  What 's  my  lesson,  Valentine?  " 

"  I  will  show  you,  this  spring.  But  it  is  the  lesson  the 
spring  teaches,  the  lesson  of  fulfilling  your  nature,  of 
waking  from  your  slumbers,  of  finding  the  air,  of  giving 
yourself  to  the  rifling  fingers  of  the  sun,  of  yielding  all 
your  scent  to  others,  and  of  taking  all  their  scent  to 
you.  That 's  the  lesson  of  your  strength,  Julian,  and  of 
all  the  strength  of  the  spring.  Lie  out  in  the  showers, 
and  let  the  clouds  cover  you  with  shadows,  and  listen  to 
the  song  of  every  bird,  and  —  and  —  ah!"  he  suddenly 
broke  off  in  a  burst  of  laughter,  "I  am  rhapsodizing.  The 


152  FLAMES 

spring  has  got  into  my  veins  even  among  these  chimney- 
pots of  London,  The  spring  is  in  me,  and,  who  knows? 
your  soul,  Julian.  For  don't  you  feel  wild  blood  in 
your  veins  sometimes?  " 

"Yes,  yes." 

"And  humming  passions  that  come  to  you  and  lift 
you  from  your  feet?  " 

"You  know  I  do." 

"But  I  never  knew  before  that  they  might  lift  you 
towards  heaven.  That 's  the  thing.  I  have  thought 
that  the  exercise  of  the  passions  dragged  a  man  down ; 
but  why  should  it  be  so?  I  have  talked  of  men  wallowing 
in  the  mire.  I  must  find  out  whether  I  have  been  lying 
when  I  said  that.  Julian,  this  spring,  you  and  I  will  see 
the  world,  at  any  rate,  with  open  eyes.  We  will  watch 
the  budding  and  blossoming  of  the  souls  around  us,  the 
flowers  in  the  garden  of  life.  We  will  not  be  indifferent 
or  afraid.  I  have  been  a  coward  in  my  ice  prison  of 
refinement.  I  keep  a  perpetual  season  of  winter  round 
me.     I  know  it.     I  know  it  to-night. " 

Julian  did  not  speak.  He  was  carried  away  by  this 
outburst,  which  gained  so  much,  and  so  strange,  force  by 
its  issue  from  the  lips  and  from  the  heart  of  Valentine. 
But  he  was  carried  away  as  a  weak  swimmer  by  a  resist- 
less torrent,  and  instinctively  he  seemed  to  be  aware  of 
danger  and  to  be  stretching  out  his  arms  for  some  rock 
or  tree-branch  to  stay  his  present  course.  Perhaps 
Valentine  noticed  this,  for  his  excitement  suddenly 
faded,  and  his  face  resumed  its  usual  expression  of  almost 
cold  purity  and  refinement. 

"  I  generally  translate  this  sort  of  thing  into  music," 
he  said. 

At  the  last  word  Julian  looked  up  instinctively  to  the 
wall  on  which  the  picture  of  "The  Merciful  Knight" 
usually  hung.  For  Valentine's  music  was  inseparably 
connected  in  his  mind  with  that  picture.  His  eyes  fell 
on  a  gap. 

"Val,"  he  exclaimed,  in  astonishment,  "what's 
become  of —  " 

"Oh,  'The  Merciful  Knight'?  It  has  gone  to  be 
cleaned." 


THE    STRENGTH    OF   THE   SPRING     153 

"Why?     It  was  all  right,  surely?  " 
"  No.      I  found  it  wanted  cleaning  badly  and  I  am 
having  it  reframed.      It  will  be  away  for  some  time." 
"You  must  miss  it." 
"Yes,  very  much." 
The  last  words  were  spoken  with  cutting  indifference. 


CHAPTER  VII 

JULIAN  VISITS  THE   LADY  OF  THE  FEATHERS 

From  that  night,  and  almost  imperceptibly,  the  rela- 
tions existing  between  Valentine  and  Julian  slightly 
changed.  It  seemed  to  Julian  as  if  a  door  previously  shut 
in  his  friend's  soul  opened  and  as  if  he  entered  into  this 
hitherto  secret  chamber.  He  found  there  an  apparent 
strange  humanity  which,  as  he  grew  accustomed  to  it, 
warmed  him.  The  curious  refined  saintliness  of  Valen- 
tine, almost  chilly  in  its  elevation,  thawed  gently  as  the 
days  went  by,  but  so  gently  that  Julian  scarcely  knew  it, 
could  scarcely  define  the  difference  which  nevertheless  led 
him  to  alter  his  conduct  almost  unconsciously.  One  great 
sameness,  perhaps,  gave  him  a  sensation  of  safety  and  of 
continuity.  Valentine's  face  still  kept  its  almost  un- 
earthly expression  of  intellectuality  and  of  purity.  When 
Julian  looked  at  him  no  passions  flamed  in  his  blue  eyes, 
no  lust  ever  crawled  in  the  lines  about  his  mouth.  His 
smooth  cheeks  never  flushed  with  beaconing  desire,  nor 
was  his  white  forehead  pencilled  with  the  shadowy  writ- 
ing that  is  a  pale  warning  to  the  libertine.  And  yet  his 
speech  about  the  spring  that  night,  as  they  leaned  out  over 
Victoria  Street,  had  evidently  not  been  a  mere  reckless 
rhapsody.  It  had  held  a  meaning  and  was  remembered. 
In  Valentine  there  seemed  to  be  flowering  a  number  of 
faint-hued  wants,  such  wants  as  had  never  flowered  from 
his  nature  before.  The  fig-tree  that  had  seemed  so 
exquisitely  barren  began  to  put  forth  leaves,  and  when 
the  warm  showers  sang  to  it,  it  sang  in  tremulous  reply. 

And  the  spring  grew  in  London. 

Never  before  had  Julian  been  so  conscious  of  the 
growth  of  the  year  as  now.  The  spring  stirred  inside 
him,  as  if  he  were  indeed  the  Mother  Earth.  Tumults  of 
nature  shook  him.     With  the  bursting  of  the  crocus,  the 

154 


JULIAN   VISITS   THE   LADY  155 

pointing  of  its  spear  of  gold  to  the  sun,  a  life  gathered 
itself  together  within  him,  a  life  that  held,  too,  a  golden 
shaft  within  its  colour-stained  cup.  And  the  bland  scent 
of  the  innumerable  troops  of  hyacinths  in  Hyde  Park  was 
a  language  to  him  as  he  strolled  in  the  sun  towards  the 
Row.  Scents  speak  to  the  young  of  the  future  as  they 
speak  to  the  old  of  the  past;  to  the  one  with  an  indefinite 
excitement,  to  the  other  with  a  vague  regret.  And 
especially  when  he  was  in  the  company  of  Valentine  did 
Julian  become  intensely  alive  to  the  march  of  the  earth 
towards  summer,  and  feel  that  he  was  in  step  with  it, 
dragooned  by  the  same  music.  He  began  to  learn,  so 
he  believed,  what  Valentine  had  called  the  lesson  of  his 
strength,  and  of  all  the  strength  of  the  spring.  His  wild 
blood  leaped  in  his  veins,  and  the  world  was  walking 
with  him  to  a  large  prospect,  as  yet  fancifully  tricked  out 
in  mists  and  crowned  with  clouds. 

The  spring  brought  to  Valentine  an  abounding  health 
such  as  he  had  never  known  before,  a  physical  glory 
which,  without  actually  changing  him,  gave  to  him  a 
certain  novelty  of  aspect  which  Julian  felt  without  actu- 
ally seeing.  One  day,  when  they  were  out  riding 
together  in  the  Park,  he  said: 

"  How  extraordinarily  strong  you  look  to-day,  Val. " 

Valentine  spurred  his  horse  into  a  short  gallop. 

*'I  feel  robust,"  he  said..  "I  think  it  is  my  mind 
working  on  my  body.  I  have  attained  to  a  more  healthy 
outlook  on  things,  to  a  saner  conception  of  life.  For 
years  you  have  been  learning  from  me,  Julian.  Now  I 
think  the  positions  are  reversed.  I  am  learning  from 
you." 

Julian  pressed  his  knees  against  his  horse's  sides  with 
an  iron  grip,  feeling  the  spirited  animal's  spirited  life 
between  them.  They  were  now  on  a  level  with  the  Ser- 
pentine and  riding  parallel  to  it.  A  few  vigorous  and 
determined  bathers  swam  gaily  in  the  pale  warmth  of  the 
morning  sun.  Two  boys  raced  along  the  grassy  bank  to 
dry  themselves,  whooping  with  exultation,  and  leaping 
as  they  ran,  A  man  in  a  broad  boat,  ready  to  save  life, 
exchanged  loud  jokes  with  the  swimmers.  On  a  seat 
two  filthy  loafers  watched  the  scene  with  vacant  eyes. 


156  FLAMES 

They  had  slept  in  the  Park  all  night,  and  their  ragged 
clothes  were  drenched  with  dew. 

"I  could  race  with  those  boys,"  Valentine  said, 
"But  not  so  long  ago  I  was  like  the  men  on  the  bench. 
I  only  cared  to  look  on  at  the  bathing  of  others.  Now  I 
could  swim  myself." 

He  sent  his  horse  along  at  a  tremendous  pace  for  a 
moment,  then  drew  him  in,  and  turned  towards  Julian. 

'*We  are  learning  the  lesson  of  the  spring,"  he  said. 

As  he  spoke  a  light  from  some  hidden  place  shot  for 
an  instant  into  his  eyes  and  faded  again.  Julian  laughed 
gaily.  The  ride  spurred  his  spirits.  He  was  conscious 
of  the  recklessness  created  in  a  man  by  exercise. 

"I  could  believe  that  you  were  actually  growing, 
Val, "  he  said,  "growing  before  my  eyes.  Only  you  're 
much  too  old." 

"Yes;  I  am  too  old  for  that,"  Valentine  said. 

A  sudden  weariness  ran  in  the  words,  a  sudden  sound 
of  age. 

"The  truth  is,"  he  added,  but  with  more  life,  "my 
nature  is  expanding  inside  my  body,  and  you  feel  it  and 
fancy  you  can  see  the  envelope  echo  the  words  of  the 
letter  it  holds.  You  are  clever  enough  to  be  fanciful. 
Gently,  Raindrop,  gently!  " 

He  quieted  the  mare  as  they  turned  into  the  road. 
Just  as  they  were  passing  under  the  arch  into  the  open 
space  at  Hyde  Park  corner  a  woman  shot  across  in  front 
of  them.  They  nearly  rode  over  her,  and  she  uttered  a 
little  yell  as  she  awkwardly  gained  the  pavement.  Her 
head  was  crowned  with  a  perfect  pyramid  of  ostrich 
feathers,  and  as  she  turned  to  bestow  upon  the  riders 
the  contemptuous  glance  of  a  cockney  pedestrian,  who 
demands  possession  of  all  London  as  a  sacred  right, 
Julian  suddenly  pulled  up  his  horse. 

"  Hulloh!  "  he  said  to  the  woman. 

"  What  is  it?  "  asked  Valentine,  who  was  in  front. 

"  Wait  a  second,  Val.     I  want  a  word  with  this  lady." 

"  Rather  compromising, "  Valentine  said,  laughing,  as 
his  eyes  took  in  with  a  swift  glance  the  woman's  situa- 
tion in  the  economy  of  the  town. 

The  woman  now  slowly  advanced  to  the  railing,  ap- 


JULIAN   VISITS   THE   LADY  157 

patently  flattered  at  being  thus  hailed  from  horseback. 
Her  kinsmen  doubtless  always  walked. 

*'  Do  n't  you  remember  me?  "  Julian  said. 

She  was  in  fact  the  lady  of  the  feathers,  with  whom 
he  had  foregathered  at  the  coffee-stall  in  Piccadilly.  The 
lady  leaned  her  plush  arms  upon  the  rail  and  surveyed 
him  with  her  tinted  eyes. 

"  Can't  say  as  I  do,  my  dear,"  she  remarked.  "  What 
name?  " 

**  Never  mind  that.  But  tell  me,  have  you  ever  had  a 
cup  of  coffee  and  a  bun  in  Piccadilly  early  in  the  morn- 
ning?  " 

The  mention  of  the  bun  struck  home  to  the  lady,  swept 
the  quivering  chords  of  her  memory  into  a  tune.  She 
pushed  her  face  nearer  to  Julian  and  stared  at  him  hard. 

"  So  it  is,"  she  said.      "So  it  is." 

For  a  moment  she  seemed  inclined  to  retreat.  Then 
she  stood  her  ground.  Her  nerves,  perhaps,  had  grown 
stronger. 

"  I  should  like  to  know  you,"  Julian  said. 

The  lady  was  obviously  gratified.  She  tossed  her 
head  and  giggled. 

"  Where  do  you  live?"  Julian  continued. 

The  lady  dived  into  the  back  part  of  her  skirt,  and, 
after  a  long  and  passionate  pursuit,  ran  a  small  purse  to 
earth.  Opening  it  with  deliberation,  she  extracted  a 
good-sized  card,  and  handed  it  up  to  Julian. 

*'  There  you  are,  dearie,"  she  said. 

On  the  card  was  printed,  '*  Cuckoo  Bright,  400  Mary- 
lebone  Road." 

'*  I  will  come  at  five  this  afternoon  and  take  you  out 
to  tea,"  said  Julian. 

*' Right  you  are,  Bertie,"  the  lady  cried,  in  a  voice 
thrilling  with  pride  and  exultation. 

Julian  rode  off,  and  she  watched  him  go,  preening 
herself  against  the  rail  like  some  gaudy  bird.  She 
looked  up  at  a  policeman  and  laughed  knowingly. 

"Well,  copper,"  she  said;  "  how 's  that,  eh?" 

The  policeman  was  equal  to  the  occasion. 

"  Not  out,"  he  answered,  with  a  stiff  and  semi-official 
smile.      ' '  Move  along. ' ' 


158  FLAMES 

And  Cuckoo  Bright  moved  as  one  who  walked  on  air. 

Julian  had  joined  Valentine,  who  had  observed  the 
colloquy  from  afar,  controlling  with  some  difificulty  the 
impatience  of  his  mare,  excited  by  her  gallop. 

"  You  know  that  lady?  "  he  asked,  still  laughing,  with 
perhaps  a  touch  of  contempt. 

"  Very  platonically.  We  met  at  a  coffee-stall  in  Pic- 
cadilly as  I  was  going  home  after  your  trance.  She  was 
with  me  when  I  saw  that  strange  flame." 

"  When  you  imagined  you  saw  it." 

"  If  you  prefer  it,  Val.  I  am  going  to  see  her  this 
afternoon." 

"  My  dear  fellow — why?  " 

"  I  '11  tell  you,"  Julian  answered  gravely.  "  I  believe 
she  is  the  woman  who  went  to  the  *  European '  with 
Marr,  who  must  have  been  with  Marr  when  he  was  taken 
ill,  and  who  fled.      I  have  a  reason  for  thinking  so." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  I  '11  tell  you  later,  when  I  have  talked  to  her." 

"  Surely  you  do  n't  suspect  the  poor  creature  of  foul 
play?" 

"  Not  I.     It 's  sheer  curiosity  that  takes  me  to  her." 

"Oh." 

They  rode  on  a  step  or  two.     Then  Valentine  said: 

*'  Are  you  going  to  take  her  out?  She  's — well,  she  is 
a  trifle  unmistakable,  Julian." 

*'  Yes,  I  know.  You  are  right.  She's  not  for  after- 
noon wear,,  poor  soul.  What  damned  scoundrels  men 
are. 

Valentine  did  not  join  in  the  sentiment  thus  forcibly 
expressed. 

Between  four  and  five  that  afternoon  Julian  hailed  a 
cab  and  drove  to  Marylebone  Road.  The  houses  in  it 
seemed  endless,  and  dreary  alike,  but  at  length  the  cab 
drew  up  at  number  400,  tall,  gaunt  and  haggard,  like  the 
rest.  Julian  rang  the  bell,  and  immediately  a  shrill  dog 
barked  with  a  piping  fury  within  the  house.  Then  the 
door  was  opened  by  an  old  woman,  whose  arid  face  was 
cabalistic,  and  who  looked  as  if  she  spent  her  existence 
in  expecting  a  raid  from  the  police. 

"  Is  Miss  Cuckoo  Bright  at  home? " 


JULIAN   VISITS   THE   LADY  159 

"Miss  Bright!  I'll  see." 

The  old  dame  turned  tail,  and  slithered,  flat-footed, 
to  a  room  opening  from  the  dirty  passage.  She  van- 
ished and  Julian  heard  two  gentle  voices  muttering. 
The  old  woman  returned. 

"  This  way,  sir!  "  she  said,  in  a  voice  that  perpetu- 
ally struggled  to  get  the  whip-hand  of  an  obvious  bron- 
chitis. 

A  moment  more  and  Julian  stood  in  the  acute  pres- 
ence of  the  lady  of  the  feathers.  At  first  he  scarcely 
recognized  her,  for  she  had  discarded  her  crown  of  glory 
and  now  faced  him  in  the  strange  frivolity  of  her  hatless 
touzled  hair.  She  stood  by  the  square  table  covered 
with  a  green  cloth,  that  occupied  the  centre  of  the  small 
room,  which  communicated  by  folding  doors  with  an 
inner  chamber.  A  pastile  was  burning  drowsily  in  a 
corner,  and  the  shrill  dog  piped  seditiously  from  its  sta- 
tion on  a  black  horsehair-covered  sofa,  over  which  a 
woolwork  rug  was  thrown  in  easy  abandon.  Julian  ex- 
tended his  hand. 

"  How  d'  you  do?  "  he  said. 

"Pretty  bobbish,  my  dear,"  was  the  reply;  but  the 
voice  was  much  less  pert  than  he  remembered  it,  and 
looking  at  his  hostess,  Julian  perceived  that  she  was 
considerably  younger  than  he  had  imagined,  and  that 
she  was  actually — amazing  luxury! — a  little  shy.  She 
had  a  box  of  safety-matches  in  her  hand,  and  she  now 
struck  one,  and  applied  it  to  a  gas-burner.  The  day  was 
dark. 

"Pleased  to  see  you,"  she  added,  with  an  attempt  at 
a  hearty  and  untutored  air.      "Jessie,  shut  up.  " 

Jessie,  the  dog,  of  the  toy  species,  and  arched  into 
the  shape  of  a  note  of  interrogation,  obeyed,  lay  down 
and  trembled  into  sleep.  The  gaslight  revealed  the 
details  of  the  sordid  room,  a  satin  box  of  sweetmeats 
on  the  table,  a  penny  bunch  of  sweet  violets  in  a  speci- 
men-glass, one  or  two  yellow-backed  novels,  and  a  few 
photographs  ranged  upon  the  imitation  marble  mantel- 
piece. There  was  one  arm-chair,  whose  torn  lining  in- 
decently revealed  the  interior  stuffing,  and  there  were 
three  other  chairs  with  wooden  backs.     The  lady  of  the 


ifo  FLAMES 

feathers  did  not  dwell  in  marble  halls,  unless,  perhaps, 
imaginatively. 

"You've  got  cosey  quarters,"  Julian  said,  amiably 
lying. 

*'  Yes,  they  're  not  bad,  but  they  do  cost  money.  Sit 
down,  won't  you!  " 

The  lady  shoved  the  one  arm-chair  forward,  and  after 
a  polite  skirmish,  Julian  was  forced  to  take  it.  He  sat 
down,  disguising  from  his  companion  his  sudden  knowl- 
edge that  the  springs  were  broken.  She,  on  her  part, 
laid  hold  of  Jessie,  dumped  the  little  creature  into  her 
lap,  and  assumed  an  air  of  abrupt  gentility,  pursing  her 
painted  lips,  and  shooting  sidelong  glances  of  inquiry  at 
the  furniture.  Julian  could  not  at  once  explain  his  er- 
rand. He  felt  that  caution  was  imperative.  Besides,  the 
lady  doubtless  expected  to  be  entertained  at  Verrey's  or 
possibly  even  at  Charbonnel's.  But  Julian  had  resolved 
to  throw  himself  upon  the  lady's  hospitality. 

"  It  's  an  awful  day,"  he  said. 

The  lady  assented,  adding  that  she  had  not  been  out. 

**We  are  very  cosey  here,"  Julian  continued,  gazing 
at  the  small  fire  that  was  sputtering  in  the  grate. 

The  lady  looked  gratified.  She  felt  that  the  meagre 
abode  which  she  must  name  home  had  received  the  hall- 
mark of  a  "toff's  "  approval. 

"Now  I  am  going  to  ask  you  something,"  Julian 
said.  "Will  you  let  me  have  tea  with  you  to-day,  and 
— and — come  out  with  me  some  evening  to  the  Empire 
or  somewhere,  instead?  " 

The  lady  nodded  her  fringed  head. 

"Certainly,  my  dear,"  she  responded.  "  Proud  to 
give  you  tea,  I  'm  sure." 

Suddenly  she  bounced  up,  scattering  Jessie  over  the 
floor.  She  promenaded  to  the  door,  opened  it  and 
yelled : 

"Mrs.  Brigg!  Mrs.  Brigg!  " 

The  expostulating  feet  of  the  old  person  ascended 
wearily  from  the  lower  depths  of  the  house. 

"  Lord!     Lord!     Whatever  is  it  now?  "  she  wheezed. 

"Please  bring  up  tea  for  me  and  this  gentleman." 

The  lady  assumed  the  voice  of  a  sucking  dove. 


JULIAN   VISITS   THE   LADY  i6i 

*♦  Tea!     Why,  I  thought  you  'd  be  out  to — " 

The  lady  shot  into  the  passage  and  shut  the  door 
behind  her.  After  a  moment  she  put  her  head  in  and 
said  to  Julian: 

"  I  '11  be  back  in  a  minute.  She  's  in  a  rare  tantrum. 
I  must  go  down  and  help  her.     Pardon." 

And  she  vanished  like  a  flash. 

Julian  sat  feeling  rather  guilty.  To  distract  himself 
he  got  up  and  looked  at  the  photographs  on  the 
mantelpiece.  Most  of  them  were  of  men,  but  there 
were  two  or  three  girls  in  tights,  and  there  was  one  of  a 
stout  and  venerable  woman,  evidently  highly  respectable, 
seated  in  an  arm-chair,  with  staring  bead-like  eyes,  but 
a  sweet  and  gentle  mouth.  Her  hair  was  arranged  in 
glossy  bands.  Her  hands  held  a  large  book,  probably  a 
Bible.  Julian  looked  at  her  and  wondered  a  little  how 
she  chanced  to  be  in  this  gallre.  Then  he  started  and 
almost  exclaimed  aloud.  For  there,  at  the  end  of  the 
mantelpiece,  was  a  cabinet  photograph  of  Marr.  He 
was  right  then  in  his  suspicion.  The  lady  of  the  feath- 
ers was  also  the  lady  at  the  *'  European." 

' '  Sorry  to  keep  you  waiting, ' '  said  a  voice  behind  him. 

There  was  a  clatter  of  crockery.  His  hostess  en- 
tered bearing  a  tray,  which  held  a  teapot,  cups,  a  large 
loaf  of  bread,  and  some  butter,  and  a  milk-jug  and 
sugar-basin.     She  plumped  it  down  on  the  table. 

"Mrs.  Brigg  wouldn't  make  toast,"  she  explained. 
*'  And  I  did  n't  like  to  keep  you. " 

"Let's  make  some  ourselves,"  said  Julian,  with  a 
happy  inspiration. 

He  felt  that  to  perform  a  common  and  a  cosey  act  must 
draw  them  together,  and  awaken  in  the  lady's  breast  a 
happy  and  progressive  confidence.  She  was  evidently 
surprised  at  the  suggestion. 

"Well,  I  never!  "  she  ejaculated.  "You  are  a  queer 
one.     You  are  taking  a  rise  out  of  me  now!  " 

"Not  at  all.  I  like  making  toast.  Give  me  a  fork. 
I  '11  do  it,  and  you  sit  there  and  direct  me." 

She  laughed  and  produced  the  fork  from  a  mean  cup- 
board which  did  duty  as  a  sideboard. 

"Here  you  are,  then.     Cut  it  pretty  thick.     It  ain't 


i62  FLAMES 

so  high  class,  but  it  eats  better.  That 's  it.  Sit  on  this 
stool,  dear." 

She  kicked  an  ancient  leather  one  to  the  hearth,  and 
Julian,  tucking  his  long-tailed  frock  coat  under  him, 
squatted  down  and  thrust  forward  the  bread  to  the  bars 
of  the  grate.  The  lady  opened  the  lid  of  the  teapot  and 
examined  the  brew  with  an  anxious  eye. 

*'  It  's  drawin'  beautiful,"  she  declared.  "  Well,  I  'm 
d — "  she  caught  herself  up  short.  "Well  this  is  bally 
funny,"  she  said.      "Turn  it,  dearie." 

Julian  obeyed,  and  they  began  to  talk.  For  the  ice 
was  broken  now,  and  the  lady  was  quite  at  her  ease,  and 
simple  and  human  in  her  hospitalities. 

"This  is  better  than  the  bun,"  Julian  said. 

"I  believe  you,  dear.  And  yet  that  bun  did  me  a 
deal  of  good  that  mornin'." 

Her  voice  became  suddenly  reflective. 

"A  deal  of  good." 

"Are  you  often  out  at  such  a  time? " 

"Not  I.  But  that  night  I'd  —  well,  I  didn't  feel 
like  bein'  indoors.  There  's  things  —  well,  there,  it 
do  n't  matter.  That  toast 's  done,  dearie.  Bring  it 
here,  and  let  me  butter  it." 

Julian  brought  it,  and  cut  another  slice  from  the  loaf. 
He  toasted  while  the  lady  buttered,  a  fine  division  of 
labour  which  drew  them  close  together.  Jessie,  mean- 
while, attracted  by  these  pleasant  preparations,  hovered 
about,  wriggling  in  pathetic  anxiety  to  share  the  good 
things  of  life. 

"  Anything  wrong  that  night?  "  Julian  said,  carelessly. 

The  lady  buttered,  like  an  angry  machine. 

"Oh  no,  dearie,"  she  said.  "Make  haste,  or  the 
tea  *I1  be  as  black  as  coal.  Jessie,  you  're  a  pig!  I  do 
spoil  her." 

Julian  called  the  little  dog  to  him.  She  came  vora- 
ciously, her  minute  and  rat-like  body  tense  with  greed. 

"She  's  a  pretty  dog,"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  the  lady  rejoined  proudly.  "  She 's  a  show 
dog.  She  was  give  to  me,  and  I  would  n't  part  with  her 
for  nuts,  no,  nor  for  diamonds  neither.  Would  I,  Jessie? 
Ah,  well,  dogs  stick  to  you  when  men  do  n't. " 


JULIAN   VISITS   THE   LADY  163 

She  was  trying  to  be  arch,  but  her  voice  was  really 
quivering  to  tears,  and  in  that  sentence  rang  all  the 
tragedy  of  her  poor  life.  Julian  looked  across  at  her  as 
she  sat  by  the  tray,  buttering  now  almost  mechanically. 
She  was  naturally  a  pretty  girl,  but  was  growing  rapidly 
haggard,  and  was  badly  made  up,  rouged  in  wrong 
places  consumptively,  powdered  everywhere  disastrously. 
Her  eyes  were  pathetic,  but  above  them  the  hair  was 
dreadfully  dyed,  and  frizzed  into  a  desolate  turmoil.  She 
had  a  thin  young  figure  and  anxious  hands.  As  he  looked 
Julian  felt  a  profound  pity  and  a  curious  manly  friendship 
for  her.  She  had  that  saddest  aspect  of  a  human  being 
about  whom  it  does  n't  matter.  Only  it  matters  about 
every  living  creature  so  much. 

The  lady  caught  his  eye,  and  extended  her  lips  in  a 
forced  smile. 

"You  never  know  your  luck!"  she  cried.  "So  it 
do  n't  do  to  be  down  on  it.  Come  on,  dearie.  Now 
then  for  the  tea." 

She  poured  it  out,  and  Julian  drew  up  to  the  table. 
Already  he  felt  oddly  at  home  in  this  poor  room,  with  this 
poor  life,  into  which  he  longed  to  bring  a  little  hope,  a 
little  safety.  Jessie  sprang  to  his  knees,  and  thence, 
naughtily,  to  the  table,  snuffling  towards  the  plate  of 
toast.  The  lady  drew  it  away  and  approached  it  to  her 
nose  by  turns,  playfully. 

*'  She  is  a  funny  one,"  she  said.  "  Is  your  tea  right, 
dearie? " 

"Perfect,"  said  Julian.      "Is  my  toast  right?" 

"Right  as  ninepence,  and  righter. " 

She  munched. 

"  I  like  you,"  she  said.      "  You  're  a  gentleman." 

She  spoke  naturally,  without  coquetry.  It  was  a  fine 
experience  for  her  to  be  treated  with  that  thing  some 
women  never  know  —  respect.  She  warmed  under  it  and 
glistened. 

"We  must  be  friends,"  Julian  said. 

"  Pals.     Yes.     Have  some  more  sugar?  " 

She  jumped  two  lumps  into  his  cup,  and  laughed  quite 
gaily  when  the  tea  spouted  over  into  the  saucer.  And 
they  chatted  on,  and  fed  Jessie  into  joy  and  peace.    Grad- 


164  FLAMES 

ually  Julian  drew  the  conversation  round  to  the  photo- 
graphs. The  lady  was  expansive.  She  gave  short  his- 
tories of  some  of  the  men,  summing  them  up  with  con- 
siderable shrewdness,  kodaking  their  characters  with 
both  humour  and  sarcasm.  Julian  and  she  progressed 
along  the  mantelpiece  together.  Presently  they  arrived 
at  the  old  lady  with  the  Bible, 

"  And  this?  "  Julian  said. 

The  lady's  fund  of  spirits  was  suddenly  exhausted. 

"Oh,  that,"  she  said,  and  a  sort  of  strange,  sup- 
pressed blush  struggled  up  under  the  rouge  on  her  face. 
"Well,  that  's  mother." 

"  I  like  her  face." 

"Yes.     She  thinks  I  'm  dead." 

The  lady  turned  away  abruptly. 

"I'll  just  carry  the  tray  down  to  Mrs.  Brigg,"  she 
said,  and  she  clattered  out  with  it,  and  down  the  stairs. 

Julian  heard  her  loudly  humming  a  music-hall  song  as 
she  went,  the  requiem  of  her  dead  life  with  the  old 
woman  who  held  the  Bible  on  her  knees.  When  she 
returned,  her  mouth  was  hard  and  her  eyes  were  shining 
ominously.  Julian  was  still  standing  by  the  mantelpiece. 
As  she  came  in  he  pointed  to  the  photograph  of  Marr. 

"And  this?  "  he  asked.      "  Who  's  this?  " 

The  lady  burst  into  a  shrill  laugh  of  mingled  fear  and 
cunning. 

"  That 's  the  old  gentleman!  " 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  What  I  say, —  the  old  gentleman,  Nick,  the  devil,  if 
you  like  it." 

"  Now  you  are  trying  to  take  a  rise  out  of  me. " 

"Not  I,  dear,"  she  said.  "That's  the  devil,  sure 
enough." 

Either  the  tea  and  toast  had  rendered  her  exuberant, 
or  the  thought  of  the  old  woman  who  believed  her  to  be 
dead  had  driven  her  into  recklessness.     She  continued: 

"  I  'd  been  with  him  that  night  I  met  you,  and  I  was 
frightened,  I  tell  you.     I  'd  been  mad  with  fright." 

"  Why?     What  had  he  done  to  you?  " 

Julian  strove  to  conceal  his  eager  interest  under  a 
light  assumption  of  carelessness. 


JULIAN   VISITS   THE    LADY  165 

"  Done!  —  nevermind.     It  do  n't  do  to  talk  about  it. " 

She  laid  her  thin  hand  on  his  arm,  as  if  impelled  to  be 
confidential. 

"  Do  you  believe  in  people  being  struck? "  she  said. 

"Struck!     I  do  n't  understand. " 

"Struck,"  she] repeated  superstitiously.  "Down, 
from  up  there?  " 

Her  eyes  went  up  to  the  ceiling,  like  the  child's  when 
it  thinks  of  heaven. 

"  Was  he?  "  Julian  asked. 

She  nodded,  pursing  her  red  lips. 

"That's  what  I  think.  It  came  so  sudden.  Just 
when  I  was  going  to  scream  somethin'  seemed  to  come 
over  him,  like  madness  it  was.  He  seemed  listening. 
Then  he  says,  'Now  —  now!'  And  he  seemed  goin* 
right  off.  He  stared  at  me  and  did  n't  seem  to  know  me. 
Lord,  I  was  blue  with  it,  I  tell  you,  dear!  I  was  that 
frightened  I  just  left  him  and  bunked  for  it,  and  never 
said  a  word  to  anybody.  I  ran  downstairs  and  got  out 
of  the  house,  and  I  daren't  go  home.  So  I  just  walked 
about  till  I  met  you." 

She  sighed. 

"  I  did  enjoy  that  coffee,  I  tell  you  straight,  but  when 
you  began  about  seein'  things,  I  could  n't  stow  it.  My 
nerves  was  shook.      So  off  I  trotted  again." 

Julian  put  a  question  to  her. 

"  Do  you  know  what  has  become  of  him?  " 

"  Not  I.  He  '11  never  get  in  here  again.  Mrs.  Brigg 
won't  let  him.      She  never  could  abide  him." 

She  shook  her  shoulders  in  an  irrepressible  shudder. 

"I  wish  he  was  dead,"  she  said.  "I  never  go  out 
but  what  I  'm  afraid  I  shall  meet  him,  or  come  back  late 
but  what  I  think  I  shall  find  him  standin'  against  the 
street  door.      I  wish  he  was  dead." 

"  I  knew  him.      He  is  dead." 

She  looked  at  him,  at  first  questioning,  then  awe- 
stricken. 

"  Then  he  was  struck?     Lord!  " 

Her  red  mouth  gaped. 

"  It  was  in  the  papers,"  Julian  said.  "  At  the  Euro- 
pean Hotel." 


i66  FLAMES 

*'  That  was  the  place.  Lord!  I  never  see  the  papers. 
Dead  is  he?     I  am  glad." 

Her  relief  was  obvious,  yet  almost  shocking,  and 
Julian  could  not  question  her  good  faith.  She  had  cer- 
tainly not  known.  He  longed  to  find  out  more  about 
her  relations  with  Marr,  and  his  treatment  of  her,  but 
she  shied  away  from  the  subject.  Obviously  she  really 
loathed  and  detested  the  remembrance  of  him. 

'*  But  why  do  you  keep  his  photograph?  "  Julian  asked 
at  last. 

The  lady  seemed  puzzled. 

"I  dunno,"  she  said  at  last.  **  I  don't  seem  as  if 
I  could  burn  it.  But  if  he  is  gone  —  dead,  I  mean  — 
really—" 

"He  is." 

"I  know." 

She  sat  thoughtfully.     Then  she  said: 

"He  didn't  look  a  fellow  to  die.  It  seems  funny. 
No;  he  did  n't  look  it. " 

And  then  she  dropped  the  subject,  and  nothing  would 
induce  her  to  return  to  it.  Presently  they  heard  a 
church  clock  strike.  It  chimed  seven.  Julian  was 
astonished  to  find  that  time  had  gone  so  quickly. 

"  I  must  be  going,"  he  said. 

The  lady  looked  at  him  with  an  odd,  half-impudent, 
half-girlish,  and  wistful  scrutiny. 

"I  say,"  she  began,  and  stopped. 

"Yes?" 

"  I  say  —  why  ever  did  you  come?" 

The  short  question  that  expressed  her  wondering 
curiosity  might  well  have  driven  any  thoughtful  man 
into  tears.  And  Julian,  young  and  careless  as  he  often 
was,  felt  something  of  the  terror  and  the  pain  enshrined 
in  it.     But  he  did  not  let  her  see  this. 

"I  wanted  to  have  a  talk  with  you,"  he  answered. 

"A  talk;  you  like  a  talk  with  me?" 

"  Yes,  surely." 

She  still  stared  at  him  with  pathetic  eyes.  He  had 
stood  up. 

"Oh,"  she  said.      "Well,  dearie,  I  'm  glad." 

Julian  took  up  his  hat. 


JULIAN   VISITS   THE    LADY  167 

**I  'm  going  out  too,"  she  said. 

"Are  you?" 

"Yes." 

She  threw  a  sidelong  glance  at  him,  then  added 
nardily,  although  her  painted  lips  were  suddenly  quiver- 
ing: 

'*  I  've  got  to  go  to  work." 

"I  know,"  Julian  said.  "Well,  I  will  wait  till  you 
are  ready  and  drive  you  wherever  you  want  to  go." 

*'  IVant  to  go,"  she  began,  with  a  little,  shrill,  hideous 
laugh.  Then,  pulling  herself  up,  she  added  in  a  sub- 
dued voice: 

"Thank  you,  dearie.      I  won't  be  long." 

She  opened  the  folding  doors  and  passed  into  the 
inner  room,  accompanied  by  Jessie.  Julian  waited  for 
her.  He  found  himself  listening  to  her  movements  in 
the  other  room,  to  the  creak  of  wood,  as  she  pulled  out 
drawers,  to  the  rustle  of  a  dress  lifted  from  a  hook,  the 
ripple  of  water  poured  from  a  jug  into  a  basin.  He 
heard  the  whole  tragedy  of  preparation,  as  this  girl 
armed  herself  for  the  piteous  battle  of  the  London 
streets.  And  then  his  ears  caught  the  eager  patter  of 
Jessie  to  and  fro,  and  a  murmured  expostulation  from 
her  mistress.  Evidently  the  little  dog  had  got  hold  of 
some  article  of  attire  and  was  worrying  it.  There  was 
a  hidden  chase  and  a  hidden  capture.  Jessie  was  scolded 
and  kissed.  Then  the  sitting-room  slowly  filled  with 
the  scent  of  cherry-blossom.  A  toothbrush  in  action 
was  distinctly  audible.  This  tragedy  had  its  comic  relief, 
like  almost  all  tragedies.  Julian  sighed  and  smiled, 
but  his  heart  was  heavy  with  the  desolate  and  sordid 
wonder  of  life,  as  his  mind  heard  —  all  over  London  — 
a  thousand  echoes  of  the  bedchamber  music  of  the  lady 
of  the  feathers. 

The  folding  doors  opened  wide  and  she  appeared, 
freshly  painted  and  powdered,  crowned  once  again  with 
the  forest  of  ostrich  tips,  and  holding  the  struggling 
Jessie  in  her  arms. 

"  Jessie  must  go  to  basket,"  she  said,  and  she  dropped 
the  dog  into  a  tiny  basket  lined  with  red  flannel,  and 
held  up  a  warning  finger. 


l68  FLAMES 

"Naughty  —  gobials!  "  she  cried.  "  Gobials,  Jessie." 

"What's  that?" 

"Bials  —  by-bye.  She  don't  like  bein'  left.  Well, 
dearie,  we  've  had  a  nice  time." 

Suddenly  she  put  her  hands  on  Julian's  shoulders  and 
kissed  his  mouth. 

*'  I  wish  there  wasmore  like  you,"  she  whispered. 

He  kissed  her  too,  and  put  his  arms  around  her. 
*If  I  give  you  something,  will  you  —  will  you  stay  at 
home  to-night,  just  to-night,  with  Jessie?  "  he  said. 

But  she  drew  away  and  shook  her  head. 

"I  won't  take  it." 

"Yes." 

"I  won't.  No  —  we're  pals  —  not  —  not  the  other 
thing.  You  *re  the  only  one  I  've  got  —  of  that  kind. 
I  won't  spoil  it  —  no,  I  won't." 

Her  decision  was  almost  angry.  Julian  did  not  per- 
sist. 

"I  '11  come  again,"  he  said. 

She  looked  at  him  wistfully. 

"Ah  —  but  you  won't,"  she  answered. 

"I  will." 

He  spoke  with  energy.     She  nodded. 

"I  *d  like  you  to." 

Then  they  went  out  into  the  evening  and  hailed  a 
hansom. 

"Put  me  down  at  the  Piccadilly  end  of  Regent 
Street,"  said  the  lady  of  the  feathers. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  LADY  OF   THE    FEATHERS  VISITS   VALENTINE 

Julian  was  curiously  touched  by  his  interview  in  the 
Marylebone  Road,  and  he  did  not  fail  to  recount  it  to 
Valentine,  whose  delicate  imagination  would,  he  felt 
certain,  feel  the  pity  and  the  pain  of  it. 

But  Valentine  did  not  respond  to  his  generous 
emotion. 

"  I  thought  she  looked  a  very  degraded  young  per- 
son,"  he  said,  distantly.  "And  not  interesting.  The 
woman  who  is  falling  is  interesting.  The  woman 
who  has  reached  the  bottom,  who  has  completely  arrived 
at  degradation,  is  dull  enough." 

"But  she  is  not  utterly  degraded,  Val.  For  I  know 
that  she  can  see  and  understand  something  of  the  horror 
of  her  own  condition." 

Valentine  put  his  hand  on  Julian's  shoulder. 

"  I  know  what  you  are  thinking,"  he  said. 

"What?  " 

"  That  you  would  like  to  rescue  this  girl." 

A  dull  blush  ran  over  Julian's  face. 

"  I  do  n't  know  that  I  had  got  quite  so  far  as  that," 
he  said.      "  Would  it  be  absurd  if  I  had?  " 

"I  am  not  sure  that  it  would  not  be  wrong.  Prob- 
ably this  girl  lives  the  life  she  is  best  fitted  for." 

"  You  surely  do  n't  mean — " 

"That  some  human  beings  are  born  merely  to  further 
the  necessities  of  sin  in  the  scheme  of  creation?  I  do  n't 
know  that.  Nature,  in  certain  countries,  demands  and 
obtains  pernicious  and  deadly  snakes  to  live  in  her 
bosom.  Man  demands  and  obtains  female  snakes  to  live 
in  his  bosom.  Are  not  such  women  literally  created  for 
this  metier?     How  can  one  tell?  " 

"  But  if  they  are  unhappy?  " 

169 


170  FLAMES 

**  You  think  they  would  be  happy  in  purity? " 

*'I  believe  she  would." 

Valentine  smiled  and  shook  his  head. 

'*  I  expect  her  sorrows  are  not  caused  by  the  loss  of 
her  virtue,  but  merely  by  her  lack  of  the  luxuries  of  life. 
These  birds  always  want  their  nests  to  be  made  of  gol- 
den twigs  and  lined  with  satin." 

But  Julian  remained  unconvinced. 

*'  You  do  n't  know  her,"  he  said.  "Why,  Valentine, 
you  have  never  known  such  a  woman !  You !  The  very 
notion  is  ridiculous." 

'*  I  have  seen  them  in  their  Garden  of  Eden,  offering 
men  the  fruit  of  the  tree  of  knowledge." 

"  You  mean?  " 

"At  the  'Empire.'  " 

"Ah!  I  have  half  promised  to  take  her  there  one 
night." 

"  Shall  I  come  with  you,  Julian?  " 

Julian  looked  at  him  to  see  if  he  was  in  earnest  as  he 
made  this  unutterable  proposition.  Valentine's  clear, 
cold,  thoughtful  blue  eyes  met  his  eager,  glowing,  brown, 
ones  with  direct  gravity. 

"You  mean  it,  Val?  " 

"Certainly." 

"  You  will  be  seen  at  the  '  Empire  '  with  her?" 

"  Well — would  not  you?  " 

"  But  you  are  so  different." 

"  Julian,  you  remember  that  night  when  we  leaned  out 
over  London,  when  we  saw  what  are  called  common  peo- 
ple having  common  experiences?  I  said  then  that  they, 
at  any  rate,  were  living." 

"Yes." 

"You  and  I  will  try  to  live  with  them." 

"But,  Valentine — you — " 

"  Even  I  may  learn  to  feel  the  strength  of  the  spring 
if  I  order  my  life  rather  differently  in  the  future.  We 
three,  you,  I,  the  girl,  will  go  one  night  to  the  Garden 
of  Eden,  where  the  birds  wear  tights  and  sing  comic 
songs  in  French,  and  the  scent  that  comes  from  the 
flowers  is  patchouli,  and  silk  rustles  instead  of  the  leaves 
of  the  trees.     We  will  go  there  on  boat-race  night.     Ah, 


THE   LADY   VISITS   VALENTINE       171 

the  strength  of  the  spring!  On  boat-race  night  it  beats 
with  hammering  pulses  among  the  groves  of  the  Garden 
of  Eden." 

Julian  was  surprised  at  this  outburst,  which  sounded 
oddly  deliberate,  and  was  apparently  spoken  without  real 
impulse.  He  was  surprised,  but,  on  consideration,  he 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  Valentine,  having  silently 
debated  the  question  of  his  own  life,  had  resolved  to 
make  a  definite  effort  to  see  if  he  could  change  the 
course  of  it.  Julian  felt  that  such  an  effort  must  be  use- 
less. He  knew  Valentine  so  intimately,  he  thought, — 
knew  the  very  groundwork  of  his  nature, — that  that 
nature  was  too  strong  to  be  carved  into  a  different,  and 
possibly  grotesque,  form. 

"Are  you  an  experimentalist,  Val?  "  he  asked. 

Valentine  threw  a  rapid  glance  on  him. 

"I  ?  I  do  n't  understand.  Why  should  I  experiment 
upon  you? " 

"  No;  not  on  me,  but  on  yourself." 

"Oh,  I  see  what  you  mean.  No,  Julian;  I  prefer  to 
let  fate  experiment  upon  me." 

"At  the   'Empire'?" 

"  If  fate  chooses." 

"  I  think  you  ought  to  know  Cuckoo  — " 

"  Is  that  her  name?  " 

"Yes,  Cuckoo  Bright,  before  our  meditated  expedi- 
tion." 

Valentine  seemed  struck  by  this  idea. 

"So  that  we  may  all  be  at  our  ease.  A  capital  no- 
tion. Julian,  sit  down,  write  a  note  asking  her  to  come 
to  tea  on  Thursday,  in  the  flat.  I  will  show  her  my  pic- 
tures, and  you  shall  talk  to  her  of  Huxley  and  of  Her- 
bert Spencer." 

Julian  regarded  Valentine  rather  doubtfully. 

"Are  you  malicious? "  he  said,  with  a  hesitating  note 
in  his  voice. 

"  Malicious — no!  " 

"You  won't  chaff  her?" 

"  Chaff  a  lady  who  wears  more  feathers  than  ever 
'growed  on  one  ostrich,*  and  who  was  the  intime  of  the 
mysterious  Marr?     Julian,  Julian!  " 


172  FLAMES 

Then,  seeing  that  Julian  still  looked  rather  uncomfort- 
able, Valentine  added,  dropping  his  mock  heroic  manner: 

"Don't  be  afraid.  We  will  give  the  lady  one  good 
hour." 

"Ah!"  Julian  cried,  struck  by  the  expression, 
"that 's  what  the  doctor  wished  to  give  to  every  poor 
wretch  in  London." 

"We  don't  ask  the  doctor  to  our  tea, "  Valentine  re- 
plied, with  a  sudden  coldness. 

The  invitation  was  conveyed  to  the  lady  of  the  feath- 
ers, and  in  due  course  an  answer  was  received,  a  mosaic 
of  misspelling  and  obvious  gratification. 

"My  dear,"  ran  the  missive,  "I  will  com.  I  shall  be  pleased 
to  see  you  agane,  but  I  thorght  I  shoold  not.  Men  say — oh  yes, 
I  shall  com  back — but  not  many  does,  and  I  thorght  praps  you 
was  like  the  all  the  rest.  Your  friend  is  very  good  to  assk  me, 
and  I  am,  Yr  loving, 

"  Cuckoo." 

Valentine  read  the  letter  without  comment  and  or- 
dered an  elaborate  tea.  Julian  read  it,  and  wondered 
whether  he  was  a  fool  because  he  felt  touched  by  the 
misspelt  words,  as  he  had  sometimes  felt  touched  when 
he  saw  some  very  poor  woman  attired  in  her  ridiculous 
"best"  clothes. 

The  tea-time  had  been  fixed  for  five  o'clock,  and 
Julian  intended,  of  course,  to  be  in  Victoria  Street  with 
Valentine  to  receive  the  expected  guest,  but  Cuckoo 
Bright  threw  his  polite  plans  out  of  gear,  and  Valentine 
was  alone  when,  at  half-past  four,  the  electric  bell  rang, 
and,  a  moment  later.  Wade  solemnly  showed  into  the 
drawing-room  a  striking  vision,  such  as  had  never  "  burst 
into  that  silent  sea"  of  artistic  repose  and  refinement 
before. 

The  lady  undoubtedly  wore  what  seemed  to  be  her 
one  hat,  and  the  effect  of  it,  at  all  times  remarkable, 
was  amazingly  heightened  by  its  proximity  to  the  quiet 
and  beautiful  surroundings  of  the  room.  As  a  rule,  it 
merely  cried  out.  Now  it  seemed  absolutely  to  yell 
bank-holiday  vulgarity  and  impropriety  at  the  silent  pic- 
tures. But  her  gown  decidedly  exceeded  it  in  uproar, 
being  of  the  very  loudest  scarlet  hue,  with  large  black 


THE   LADY   VISITS   VALENTINE       173 

lozenges  scattered  liberally  over  it.  From  her  rather 
narrow  shoulders  depended  a  black  cape,  whose  silk 
foundation  was  suffocated  with  bugles.  A  shrill  scent  of 
cherry-blossom  ran  with  her  like  a  crowd,  and  in  her  hand 
she  carried  an  umbrella  and  a  plush  bag  with  a  steel 
snap.  Her  face,  in  the  midst  of  this  whirlpool  of  finery, 
peeped  out  anxiously,  covered  as  it  was  with  a  smear  of 
paint  and  powder,  and  when  she  saw  Valentine  standing 
alone  to  receive  her,  her  nervous  eyes  ranged  uncom- 
fortably about  in  obvious  quest  of  an  acquaintance  and 
protector. 

*'I  am  sorry  that  Mr.  Addison  has  not  come  yet, " 
Valentine  said,  holding  out  his  hand.  "I  expect  him 
every  minute.     Won't  you  come  and  sit  down?" 

An  ironical  courtesy  vibrated  in  his  voice.  The  lady 
grew  more  obviously  nervous.  She  looked  at  Valentine 
through  the  veil  which  was  drawn  tightly  across  her  face. 
His  appearance  seemed  to  carry  awe  into  her  heart,  for 
she  stood  staring  and  attempted  no  reply,  allowing  him 
to  take  her  hand  without  either  protest  or  response. 

"Wo  n't  you  sit  down?"  he  repeated,  smiling  at  her 
with  humourous  contemplation  of  her  awkward  distress. 

The  lady  abruptly  sat  down  on  a  sofa. 

"Allow  me  to  put  a  cushion  at  your  back,"  Valen- 
tine said.  And  he  passed  behind  her  to  do  so.  But  she 
quickly  shifted  round,  almost  as  if  in  fear,  and  faced  him 
as  he  stood  with  his  hand  on  the  back  of  the  sofa. 

"  No,"  she  said,  in  a  hurry;  "I  don't  know  as  I  want 
one,  thanks." 

She  half  got  up. 

"  Have  I  come  right?  "  she  asked  uneasily.  **  Is  this 
the  house? " 

"  Certainly.     It  's  so  good  of  you  to  come. " 

The  words  did  not  seem  to  carry  any  comfort  to  the 
lady.  She  passed  the  tip  of  her  tongue  along  her  painted 
lips  and  looked  towards  the  door. 

"Pray,  don't  be  alarmed,"  Valentine  said,  sitting 
down  on  a  chair  immediately  opposite  to  her. 

"  I  ain't.     But  —  but  you  're  not  the  friend,  are  you?  " 

"  I  am  ;  and  the  ami  des  femmes  too,  I  assure  you.  Be 
calm." 


174  FLAMES 

He  bent  forward,  looking  closely  into  her  face.  The 
lady  leaned  quickly  back  and  uttered  a  little  gasp. 

''What  is  the  matter?  "  Valentine  asked. 

'*  Nothin',  nothin',''  the  lady  answered,  returning  his 
glance  as  if  fascinated  into  something  that  approached 
horror.      "When  's  he  comin'?     When  's  he  corain'?" 

*'  Directly.  But  I  trust  you  will  not  regret  spending 
a  few  minutes  alone  in  my  company.  What  can  I  do  to 
make  you  happy?  " 

*'  I  'm  all  right,  thank  you,"  she  said,  almost  roughly. 
*•  Do  n't  bother  about  me." 

"Who  could  help  bothering  about  a  pretty  woman?" 
Valentine  answered  suavely,  and  approaching  his  chair  a 
little  more  closely  to  her.  "  Do  you  know  that  my  friend 
Addison  can  talk  of  nobody  but  you?  " 

"Oh!" 

"  Nobody.     He  raves  about  you." 

"You  're  laughing,"  thelady  said,  still  uncomfortably. 

"  Not  at  all.      I  never  laugh. " 

As  he  made  this  last  remark,  Valentine  slowly  frowned. 
The  effect  of  this  change  of  expression  upon  the  lady  was 
most  extraordinary.  She  leaned  far  back  upon  the  sofa 
as  if  in  retreat  from  the  face  that  stared  upon  her,  me- 
chanically thrusting  out  her  hands  in  a  faltering  gesture 
of  self-defence.  Then,  planting  her  feet  on  the  ground 
and  using  them  as  a  lever,  she  succeeded  in  moving  the 
sofa  backwards  upon  its  castors,  which  ran  easily  over 
the  thick  carpet.  Valentine,  on  his  part,  did  not  stir, 
but  with  immovable  face  regarded  her  apparent  terror 
as  a  man  regards  some  spectacle  neither  new  nor  strange 
to  him,  silently  awaiting  its  eventual  closing  tableau. 
What  this  would  have  been  cannot  be  known,  for  at  this 
moment  the  bell  rang  and  the  butler  was  heard  moving 
in  the  hall.  The  frown  faded  from  Valentine's  face,  and 
the  lady  sprang  up  from  the  sofa  with  a  violent,  almost 
a  passionate,  eagerness.     Julian  entered  hastily. 

"Why  was  you  late?"  Cuckoo  Bright  cried  out,  has- 
tening up  to  him  and  speaking  almost  angrily.  "Why 
was  you  late?     I  did  n't  think  —  I  did  n't  —  oh!  " 

Her  voice  sounded  like  the  voice  of  one  on  the  verge 
of  tears.     Julian  looked  astonished. 


THE   LADY   VISITS   VALENTINE       175 

*•  I  am  very  sorry,"  he  began.  *'  But  I  did  n't  know 
you  would  be  here  so  soon." 

He  glanced  from  the  lady  to  Valentine  inquiringly,  as 
much  as  to  say: 

"  How  have  you  been  getting  on?  '* 

Valentine's  expression  was  gay  and  reassuring. 

"I  have  been  entertaining  your  friend,  Julian,"  he 
said.  "  But  she  has  been  almost  in^^onsolable  in  your 
absence.  She  was  standing  up  because  I  was  just  about 
to  show  her  the  pictures.  But  now  you  are  here,  we  will 
have  tea  first  instead.  Ah,  here  is  tea.  Miss  Bright,  do 
come  and  sit  by  the  fire,  and  put  your  feet  on  this  stool. 
We  will  wait  upon  you." 

Since  the  entrance  of  Julian,  his  manner  had  entirely 
changed.  All  the  irony,  all  the  mock  politeness,  had  died 
out  of  it.  He  was  now  a  kind  and  delicately  courteous 
host,  desirous  of  putting  his  guests  upon  good  terms 
and  gilding  the  passing  hour  with  a  definite  happiness. 
Cuckoo  Bright  seemed  struck  completely  dumb  by  the 
transformation.  She  took  the  chair  he  indicated,  me- 
chanically put  her  feet  up  on  the  stool  he  pushed  for- 
ward, and  with  a  rather  trembling  hand  accepted  a  cup 
of  tea. 

'*  Do  you  take  sugar?  "  Valentine  said,  bending  over 
her  with  the  sugar-basin. 

*'  No,  no,"  she  said. 

*'0h,  but  I  thought  you  loved  sweet  things,"  Julian 
interposed.      "Surely — " 

"  I  won't  have  none  to-day,"  she  ejaculated,  adding 
with  an  endeavour  after  gentility;  "thank  you,  all  the 
same,"  to  Valentine. 

He  offered  her  some  delicious  cakes,  but  she  was  ap- 
parently petrified  by  the  grandeur  of  her  surroundings, 
or  by  some  hidden  sensation  of  shyness  or  of  shame, 
and  was  refusing  to  eat  anything,  when  Julian  came  to 
the  rescue. 

"  Oh,  but  you  must,"  he  said.  **  Have  some  of  these 
sugar-biscuits." 

She  took  some  from  him  and  began  to  sip  and  munch 
steadily,  but  still  in  silence.  Julian  began  to  fear  that 
the  festival  must  be  a  dire  failure,  for  her  obvious  and 


176  FLAMES 

extreme  constraint  affected  him,  and  he  was  also  seized 
with  an  absurd  sense  of  shyness  in  the  presence  of  Val- 
entine, and,  instead  of  talking,  found  himself  immersed 
in  a  boyish  anxiety  as  to  Valentine's  attitude  of  mind 
towards  the  girl.  He  looked  at  Cuckoo  in  the  firelight 
as  she  mutely  ate  and  drank,  and  was  all  at  once  pro- 
foundly conscious  of  the  dreary  vulgarity  of  her  appear- 
ance, against  which  even  her  original  prettiness  and  her 
present  youth  fought  in  vain.  Her  hat  cast  a  monstrous 
shadow  upon  the  wall,  a  shadow  so  distorted  and  appall- 
ing that  Julian  almost  grew  red  as  he  observed  it,  and 
felt  that  Valentine  was  probably  observing  it  also.  He 
wished  poor  Cuckoo  had  left  the  crying  scarlet  gown  at 
home,  and  those  black  lozenges,  which  were  suited  to  the 
pavement  of  the  hall  of  a  financier.  Everything  she  had 
on  expressed  a  mind  such  as  Valentine  must  become 
acquainted  with  in  amazement,  and  have  intercourse 
with  in  sorrow.  The  pathetic  side  of  this  preposterous 
feathered  and  bugled  degradation  he  would  fail  to  see. 
Julian  felt  painfully  certain  of  this.  All  the  details  of 
the  woman  would  offend  him,  who  was  so  alive  to  the 
value  of  fine  details  in  life.  He  must  surely  be  wonder- 
ing with  all  his  soul  how  Julian  could  ever  have  contem- 
plated continuing  the  intercourse  with  Cuckoo  which  had 
been  begun  for  a  definite  purpose  already  accomplished. 
Yet  Julian's  feeling  of  friendship  towards  this  rouged 
scarecrow  with  the  pathetic  eyes  and  the  anxious  hands 
did  not  diminish  as  he  blushed  for  her,  but  rather  in- 
creased, fed,  it  seemed,  by  the  discordant  trifles  in  which 
her  soul  moved  as  in  a  maze.  He  was  so  much  in  the 
thrall  of  thought  that  he  had  become  quite  unconscious 
of  the  awkwardness  of  the  brooding  silence,  when  he 
heard  Valentine's  voice  say: 

"Are  you  fond  of  art.  Miss  Bright?  " 

The  question  sounded  as  if  addressed  to  some  society 
woman  at  home  in  Melbury  Road.  Addressed  to  Cuckoo 
it  was  entirely  absurd,  and  Julian  glanced  at  Valentine 
to  deprecate  the  gay  sarcasm  which  he  suspected.  But 
Valentine's  face  disarmed  him,  it  was  so  gravely  and 
serenely  polite. 

"Eh?"  said  Cuckoo. 


THE    LADY   VISITS   VALENTINE       177 

"Are  you  fond  of  art?   or  do  you  prefer  literature?  " 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said  nervously. 

"  Or  perhaps  music?  " 

**  I  like  singing,"  she  said.      *'  And  the  organs." 

•'  Do  sing  us  something,  Val, "  Julian  said,  to  create 
a  diversion. 

But  Valentine  shook  his  head. 

"  Not  to-day.     I  have  got  a  cold  in  my  throat." 

"Well,  then,  play  something." 

But  Valentine  did  not  seem  to  hear  the  last  request. 
He  had  turned  again  to  Cuckoo,  who  visibly  shied  away 
from  him,  and  clattered  the  teacup  and  saucer,  which  she 
held  like  one  alarmed. 

"Music  is  a  great  art,"  he  said  persuasively.  "And 
appeals  essentially  to  one's  emotions.  I  am  certain  now 
that  you  are  emotional." 

"  I  don  't  know,  I  'm  sure,"  she  said,  with  an  effort 
at  self-confidence. 

"You  feel  strongly,  whether  it  be  love  or  hate." 

This  last  remark  seemed  to  reach  her,  even  to  stir  her 
to  something  more  definite  than  mere  mauvaise  honte. 
She  glanced  quickly  from  Julian  to  Valentine. 

"Love  and  hate,"  she  responded.  "Yes,  that's  it; 
I  could  feel  them  both.  You're  right  there,  myd — ,  I 
mean  yes." 

And  again  she  looked  from  one  young  man  to  the 
other.  She  had  put  up  her  veil,  which  was  stretched  in 
a  bunched-up  mass  across  her  powdered  forehead,  and 
Julian  had  an  odd  fancy  that  in  the  firelight  he  saw  upon 
her  haggard  young  face  the  rapid  and  fleeting  expression 
of  the  two  violently  opposed  emotions  of  which  she 
spoke.  Her  face,  turned  upon  him,  seemed  to  shine 
with  a  queer,  almost  with  a  ludicrous,  vehemence  of 
yearning  which  might  mean  passion.  This  flashed  into 
the  sudden  frown  of  a  young  harridan  as  her  eyes  trav- 
elled on  to  Valentine.  But  the  frown  died  quickly,  and 
she  looked  downcast,  and  sat  biting  her  thin  lips,  and 
crumbling  a  biscuit  into  the  tiny  blue  and  white  china 
plate  upon  her  knee. 

"  And  do  you  give  way  to  your  impulses?  "  Valentine 
continued,  still  very  gravely. 


178  FLAMES 

"What?" 

*'  Do  you  express  what  you  feel?  " 

A  flash  of  childish  cunning  crept  into  her  eyes  and 
mouth,  giving  her  the  aspect  of  a  gamin. 

"No;  I  ain 't  such  a  fool,"  she  answered.  "Men 
do  n't  like  to  be  told  the  truth.     Do  they,  now?  " 

The  question  went  to  Julian. 

"Why  not?"  he  asked 

"  Oh,  they  like  to  be  fooled.  If  you  do  n  't  fool  them, 
they  fool  you." 

"  A  sufficiently  clear  statement  of  the  relations  of  the 
sexes  through  all  time,"  said  Valentine.  "Have  you 
ever  studied  Schopenhauer? " 

"Ah,  now,  you're  kiddin'  me!"  was  her  not  inap- 
propriate answer. 

She  was  getting  a  little  more  at  her  ease,  but  she  still 
stole  frequent  furtive  glances  at  Valentine  from  time  to 
time,  and  moved  with  an  uncomfortable  jerk  if  he  bent 
forward  to  her  or  seemed  about  to  come  near  to  her. 
He  seemed  now  really  interested  in  her  personality,  and 
Julian  began  to  wonder  if  its  very  vulgarity  came  to  him 
with  a  charm  of  novelty. 

"Kidding?"  Valentine  said,  interrogatively. 

"Gettin' at  me!  Pullin' my  leg!  Oh,  I  know  you!  " 
cried  Cuckoo.  "  I 'm  up  to  all  them  games.  You  do  n 't 
get  a  rise  cut  of  me." 

"The  lady  speaks  in  parables,"  Valentine  murmured 
to  Julian.  "I  assure  you,"  he  added  aloud,  "I  am 
speaking  quite  seriously." 

"  Oh,  seriously  be  hanged!  "  said  Cuckoo,  recklessly. 
"You 're  a  regular  funny  feller.  Oh  yes.  Only  do  n 't 
try  to  be  funny  with  me,  because  I  'm  up  to  all  that." 

She  seemed  suddenly  bent  on  turning  the  tables  on 
one  whom  she  apparently  regarded  as  her  adversary. 
Some  people,  when  they  do  make  an  effort  of  will,  are 
always  carried  forward  by  the  unwonted  exertion  into 
an  almost  libertine  excess.  Miss  Bright's  timidity  was 
now  developing  into  violent  impudence.  She  tossed  her 
head  till  the  gigantic  shadow  of  the  sarcophagus  that 
crowned  it  aspired  upon  the  wall  almost  to  the  ceiling.  She 
stuck  her  feet  out  upon  the  stool  aggressively,  and  her 


THE    LADY   VISITS   VALENTINE       179 

arms  instinctively  sought  the  akimbo  position  that  is  the 
physical  expression  of  mental  hardihood  in  vulgar 
natures. 

"  Go  along!  "  she  said. 

Valentine  pretended  to  take  her  at  her  word.  He 
got  up. 

"  Where  shall  I  go?     I  am  your  slave!  " 

She  laughed  shrilly. 

"  Go  to  blazes  if  you  like." 

Valentine  crossed  to  the  door,  and,  before  Julian  had 
time  to  speak,  opened  it  and  quietly  vanished.  Julian 
and  Cuckoo  were  left  staring  at  one  another.  The  lat- 
ter's  impudence  had  suddenly  evaporated.  Her  face  was 
working  as  if  she  was  astonished  and  afraid." 

"What's  he  after?  What's  he  after,  I  say?"  she 
ejaculated.      "Go  and  see." 

But  Julian  shook  his  head, 

"  It  's  all  right.  He  has  only  done  it  for  a  joke.  He 
will  be  back  directly." 

"Yes,  but  —  but." 

She  seemed  really  frightened.  Julian  supposed  she 
realized  her  rudeness  vaguely,  and  imagined  she  had  made 
an  abominable  faux  pas.  Acting  on  this  supposition,  he 
said  reassuringly: 

"He  didn't  mind  your  chaff.  He  knew  you  were 
only  joking." 

"Lord,  it  isn't  that,"  she  rejoined  with  trembling 
lips.      "  But  what  's  he  goin'  to  do?  " 

"Do?" 

"Yes.     Go  and  see.     Hark!" 

She  held  up  her  hand  and  leaned  forward  in  a  strained 
attitude  of  attention.  But  there  was  no  sound  in  the 
flat.     Then  she  turned  again  to  Julian  and  said: 

"And  he  's  your  friend.     Well,  I  never!  " 

The  words  were  spoken  with  an  extraordinary  convic- 
tion of  astonishment  that  roused  Julian  to  keen  atten- 
tion. 

"Why,  what  do  you  mean?  "  he  asked. 

"He's  a  wicked  fellow,"  she  said  with  a  snatch  of 
the  breath.  "  A  real  downright  wicked  fellow,  like  Marr. 
That's  what  he  is." 


i8o  FLAMES 

Julian  was  amazed. 

"  You  don't  know  what  you  are  saying,"  he  answered. 

But  she  stuck  to  her  guns  with  the  animation  of  hys- 
teria. 

"  Do  n't  I,  though?  Do  n't  I?  A  girl  that  lives  like 
me  has  to  know,  I  tell  you.  Where  should  I  be  if  I 
did  n't?  Tell  me  that,  then.  Why,  there  's  men  in  the 
streets  I  wouldn't  speak  to;  not  for  twenty  pounds,  I 
wouldn't.  And  he's  one  of  them.  Why  didn't  you 
come?  Why  ever  did  you  let  me  be  on  my  own  with 
him?     He  's  a  devil." 

"Nonsense,"  Julian  said  brusquely. 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his,  and  hers  was  trembling. 

''Well,  then,  why  's  he  gone  off  all  sudden  like  that?  " 

**Only  for  a  joke.     Wait,  I  '11  fetch  him  back." 

Cuckoo  Bright  looked  frankly  terrified  at  the  idea. 

"No,"  she  cried;  "don't.  I'm  goin'.  I'm  off. 
Help  me  on  with  my  cloak,  dearie.      I  'm  off." 

Julian  saw  that  it  was  useless  to  argue  with  her.  He 
put  the  cloak  round  her  shoulders.  As  he  did  so  he  was 
standing  behind  her,  with  his  face  to  the  fireplace.  The 
leaping  flames  sprang  from  the  coals  in  the  grate,  and 
their  light  was  reflected  on  the  wall,  near  the  door,  but 
only,  of  course,  to  a  certain  height.  Julian's  eyes  were 
attracted  to  these  leaping  flames  on  the  wall,  and  he  saw 
one  suddenly  detach  itself  from  the  shadows  of  its  breth- 
ren, take  definite  shape  and  life,  develop  while  he  looked 
from  shadow  into  substance,  float  up  on  the  background 
of  the  wall  higher  and  higher,  reach  the  ceiling  and  melt 
away.  As  it  faded  the  drawing-room  door  opened  and 
Valentine  reappeared. 

Miss  Bright  started  violently,  and  caught  at  her  cloak 
with  both  hands.     Valentine  came  forward  slowly. 

"You  are  not  going  already,  surely,"  he  said. 

"I  must,  I  must,"  she  ejaculated,  already  in  move- 
ment towards  the  hall. 

"But  I  have  just  been  to  get  you  a  box  of  sugar 
plums." 

He  held  a  satin  box  in  his  hand  and  began  to  open  it. 
But  she  hurried  on  with  a  nod. 

"  Good-bye.     Sorry,  but  I  can't  stop." 


THE    LADY   VISITS   VALENTINE       iSi 

She  was  in  the  hall  and  out  of  the  flat  in  the  twinkling 
of  an  eye,  followed  by  Julian.  Valentine  remained  in  the 
drawing-room. 

"  Lord,  I  am  glad  to  be  out  of  it,"  said  the  lady  when 
she  had  gained  the  street  and  stood  panting  on  the  pave- 
ment. 

Julian  hailed  a  hansom  and  put  her  into  it.  She  gazed 
at  him  as  if  she  was  almost  afraid  to  part  from  him. 

"You  '11  —  you  '11  come  and  see  me  again,"  she  said, 
wistfully. 

"Yes,  I  '11  come,"  he  answered. 

"  For  God's  sake,  do  n't  bring  him,  dearie,"  she  said, 
with  an  upward  lift  of  her  feathered  head  towards  the 
block  of  mansions. 

Then  she  drove  off  into  the  darkness. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  LADY  OF  THE  FEATHERS  WASHES  HER  FACE 

It  was  at  this  point  in  his  career  that  Julian,  just  for 
a  time,  began  keenly  to  observe  Valentine,  and  to  won- 
der if  there  were  hidden  depths  in  his  friend  which  he 
had  never  sounded.  The  cause  of  the  dawning  of  this 
consideration  lay  in  Cuckoo's  strange  assertion  and  fear 
of  Valentine,  primarily,  but  there  were  other  reasons 
prompting  him  to  an  unusual  attitude  of  attention, 
although  he  might  not  at  first  have  been  able  to  name 
them.  He  could  not  believe  that  there  was  any  change 
in  Valentine,  but  he  fancied  that  there  might  be  some 
side  of  Valentine's  nature  which  he  did  not  fully  under- 
stand, which  others  vaguely  felt  and  wrongly  interpreted. 
For  it  was  the  instinctive  creatures  in  whom  Valentine's 
presence  now  seemed  to  awake  distrust,  and  surely  an 
instinct  may  be  too  violent,  or  move  in  a  wrong  direc- 
tion, and  yet  be  inspired  by  some  subtlety  in  the  charac- 
ter that  awakens  it,  and  prompts  it,  and  drives  it  for- 
ward. Julian  thought  that  he  found  a  reason  for 
Cuckoo's  aversion  in  Valentine's  lofty  refinement,  which 
would  naturally  jar  upon  her  nature  of  the  streets.  For 
her  pathos,  her  better  impulses,  which  had  touched  him 
and  led  him  to  sympathy  with  her,  were  perhaps  only 
stars  in  a  mind  that  must  be  a  dust-heap  of  horrible 
memories  and  coarse  thoughts.  To  protect  Valentine 
from  even  the  most  diminutive  shadow  of  suspicion, 
Julian  was  ready  silently  to  insist  that  Cuckoo  was 
radically  bad,  although  he  really  knew  that  she  was 
rather  a  weak  sacrifice  than  an  eager  sinner. 

Her  declaration  that  Valentine  was  evil  carried  com- 
plete conviction  of  its  sincerity.  Indeed,  her  obvious 
fear  of  him  proved  this.  And  this  fear  of  a  woman 
reminded  Julian  of  the  fear  exhibited  towards  Valentine 

182 


THE   LADY   WASHES    HER   FACE       183 

by  Rip,  a  terror  which  still  continued,  to  such  an  extent, 
indeed,  that  the  little  dog  was  now  never  permitted  to 
be  in  the  presence  of  its  master. 

"You  are  rather  an  awe-inspiring  person,  Valentine," 
Julian  said  one  day. 

Valentine  looked  surprised. 

"I  never  knew  it,"  he  answered,  "Who  is  afraid 
of  me?" 

**Oh,  I  don't  know — well,  Rip,  for  one,  and — and 
that  girl,  Cuckoo,  for  another." 

"Why  is  she  afraid?  " 

**  I  can't  imagine." 

"I  could  soon  put  her  at  her  ease,  and  I  will  do  so." 

He  went  over  to  the  mantelpiece  and  took  up  an 
envelope  that  was  lying  there.  From  it  he  drew  a  slip 
of  coloured  paper. 

"This  will  be  the  talisman,"  he  said.  "  Have  you 
forgotten  that  Saturday  is  boat-race  day? " 

"What,  you  have  really  got  a  box  for  the  'Empire  '?  " 

"Yes;  and  I  mean  to  invite  Miss  Bright." 

Julian  exclaimed  with  his  usual  frankness: 

"Why  the  devil  do  you  think  of  asking  her?  " 

"Because  I  am  certain  she  will  be  amusing  company 
on  such  an  occasion." 

"  That 's  your  real  reason?  " 

"  Yes.     She  will  come,  of  course?  " 

Julian  looked  rather  doubtful. 

"I  do  n't  know,"  he  said.     "  She  may." 

"  She  must,  Julian.  Here  is  a  note  I  have  written  to 
her.  Do  give  it  to  her  yourself.  I  can't  be  thought  a 
bogey.     She  must  come  and  learn  that  I  am  harmless." 

As  he  said  this  Valentine's  fingers  unconsciously 
twisted  the  note  they  held  so  strongly  that  it  was  torn 
to  shreds. 

"Why,  you  have  torn  it  up,"  Julian  said,  in  surprise. 

"Oh  yes." 

Valentine  paused,  then  added: 

"You  had  better  ask  her  by  word  of  mouth.  Per- 
suade her  to  come." 

"I  will  try." 

The  lady  of  the  feathers  did  indeed  require  a  good 


i84  FLAMES 

deal  of  persuasion.  When  first  Julian  made  the  proposi- 
tion her  face  shone  with  gratification,  for  he  gave  the 
invitation  without  mentioning  Valentine's  name.  But 
then  the  clouds  came  down.  The  lady  remembered  him 
suddenly,  and  said: 

"  Are  we  two  going  alone,  dearie?  " 

"Well — it 's  a  big  box,  you  see.  We  should  be  lost 
in  it." 

"Oh." 

She  waited  for  further  explanation,  an  obvious  anxiety 
in  her  eyes. 

"My  friend  Cresswell  is  coming  with  us.    It 's  his  box." 

The  gratification  died  away  from  the  painted  face. 
Cuckoo  shook  her  head  and  pursed  her  lips  in  obvious 
and  absurd  disapprobation. 

"Then  I  don't  think  I'll  go.      No;  I  won't." 

And  upon  this  Julian  had  to  launch  forth  over  a  sea 
of  expostulation  and  protest.  Cuckoo  possessed  all  the 
obstinacy,  of  an  ignorant  and  battered  nature,  taught  by 
many  a  well-founded  distrust,  to  rely  upon  its  own  feeble- 
ness, rather  than  upon  the  probably  brutal  strength  of 
others.  She  was  difficult  to  move,  although  she  had  no 
arguments  with  which  to  defend  her  assumption  of  the 
mule's  attitude.  At  last  Julian  grew  almost  angry  in 
defence  of  Valentine. 

"Half  the  women  in  London  would  be  proud  to  go 
with  him,"  he  said  hotly. 

"  Not  if  they  knew  as  much  about  men  as  I  do,"  she 
answered. 

"  But  you  know  nothing  whatever  about  him.  That  *s 
just  the  point." 

"Ah,  but  I  feel  a  lot,"  she  said,  with  an  expressive 
twist  of  her  thin,  rather  pretty  face.  "He  's  bad,  rank 
bad.     That 's  what  he  is." 

Julian  was  suddenly  seized  with  a  desire  to  probe  this 
outrageous  instinct  to  its  source,  believing,  like  many 
people,  that  the  stream  of  instinct  must  flow  from  some 
hidden  spring  of  reason. 

"  Now,  look  here,"  he  said,  more  quietly.  "I  want 
you  to  try  to  tell  me  what  it  is  in  him  that  you  dislike  so 
much." 


THE    LADY   WASHES   HER   FACE       185 

"It 's  everything,  dearie." 

"No;  but  that 's  absurd.  For  instance,  it  can't  be 
his  looks." 

"It  is." 

"Why,  he  's  wonderfully  handsome." 

"I  do  n't  care.     I  hate  his  face;  yes,  I  do." 

Julian  impatiently  pitied  her  as  one  pities  a  blind  man 
who  knocks  up  against  one  in  the  street.  But  he  thought 
it  best  to  abandon  Valentine's  appearance  to  its  unhappy 
fate  of  her  dislike,  and  sailed  away  on  another  tack. 

' '  My  friend  likes  you, ' '  he  said,  as  he  thought,  craftily. 

Cuckoo  tossed  her  head  without  reply. 

"  He  said  he  would  rather  go  with  you  on  Saturday 
than  with  any  one  in  London." 

This  last  remark  seemed  to  produce  a  considerable 
effect  upon  the  girl. 

"  Did  he,  though?  "  she  asked,  one  finger  going  up  to 
her  under  lip,  reflectively.      "Really,  truly?" 

"  Really,  truly." 

"What  should  he  want  with  me?  He  's  —  he  's  not 
one  of  the  usual  sort." 

"Valentine  usual!     I  should  think  not." 

"  And  he  wants  me  to  go?  " 

Certainly  she  was  impressed  and  flattered. 

"Yes,  very  much." 

Julian  found  himself  again  wondering,  with  Cuckoo, 
mightily  at  Valentine's  vagary  of  desire.  She  touched 
his  hand  with  her  long,  thin  fingers. 

"  You  '11  stay  with  me  all  the  time?  " 

"Why,  of  course." 

"You  won't  leave  me?   Not  alone  with  him,  I  mean." 

"  No;  do  n't  be  so  absurd." 

A  new  hesitation  sprang  into  her  face. 

"But  what  am  I  to  go  in?"  she  said.  "He  —  he 
do  n't  like  my  red." 

So  her  awe  and  dislike  prompted  her  to  a  desire  of 
pleasing  Valentine  after  all,  and  had  led  her  shrewdly  to 
read  his  verdict  on  her  poorly  smart  gown.  Julian, 
pleased  at  his  apparent  victory,  now  ventured  on  a  care- 
ful process  of  education,  on  the  insertion  of  the  thin 
edge  of  the  wedge,  as  he  mutely  named  it. 


i86  FLAMES 

"Cuckoo,"  he  said,  "let  me  give  you  a  present, —  a 
dress.  Now,"  as  she  began  to  shake  her  tangled  head, 
"  do  n't  be  silly.  I  have  never  given  you  anything,  and 
if  we  are  to  be  pals  you  must  n't  be  so  proud.  Can  you 
get  a  dress  made  in  three  days, —  a  black  dress?  " 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "But  black!  I  shall  look  a 
dowdy." 

"No." 

"Oh,  but  I  shall,"  she  murmured,  dismally.  "Col- 
ours suits  me  best.  You  see  I  'm  thin  now;  not  as  I 
was  when  I  —  well,  before  I  started.  Ah,  I  looked  dif- 
ferent then,  I  did.  I  do  n't  want  to  be  a  scarecrow  and 
make  you  ashamed  of  me." 

Julian  longed  to  tell  her  that  it  was  the  rouge,  the 
feathers,  the  scarlet  skirt,  the  effusive  bugles,  that  made 
a  scarecrow  of  her.  But  he  had  a  rough  diplomacy  that 
taught  him  to  refrain.     He  stuck  to  his  point,  however. 

"  I  shall  give  you  a  black  dress  and  hat — " 

"Oh,  my  hat's  all  right  now,"  she  interposed. 
"  Them  feathers  is  beautiful." 

"Splendid;  but  I'll  give  you  a  hat  to  match  the 
dress,  and  a  feather  boa,  and  black  suede  gloves." 

"But,  dearie,  I  shall  be  a  trottin'  funeral,  that  I 
shall,"  she  expostulated,  divided  between  excitement 
and  perplexity, 

"No;  you  'II  look  splendid.     And  Cuckoo — " 

He  hesitated,  aware  that  he  was  treading  on  the 
divine  quicksand  of  woman's  prejudices. 

"Cuckoo,  I  want  you  to  make  a  little  experiment  for 
my  sake." 

"Whatever  is  it,  dearie?" 

"Just  on  that  one  night  take  —  take  all  that  off." 

With  an  almost  timid  gesture,  and  growing  boyishly 
red,  he  indicated  the  art  decoration,  pink  and  pale,  that 
adorned  her  face. 

Poor  Cuckoo  looked  completely  flabbergasted. 

"What?"  she  said  uncertainly;  "don't  you  like  me 
with  it?" 

"No." 

"Well,  but,  I  don't  know." 

Such  an  experiment  evidently  struck  her  as  porten- 


THE    LADY   WASHES    HER   FACE       187 

tous,  earth-shaking.  She  stared  into  the  dingy  glass  that 
stood  over  the  mantelpiece  in  Marylebone  Road. 

"  I  shall  look  a  hag,"  she  muttered,  with  conviction. 
"I  shall." 

"  You  never  had  it,  before  you  started." 

Her  eyes  grew  round. 

"  Ah,  that  was  jolly  different,  though,"  she  said. 

"Try  it,"  he  urged,  "Go  and  try  it  now,  then 
come  and  show  me." 

"I  don't  like  to." 

The  idea  reduced  her  almost  to  shyness.  But  she  got 
up  falteringly,  and  moved  towards  the  bedroom.  When 
she  was  by  the  folding  door  she  said: 

"I  say." 

"Well?" 

"  I  say,  you  won't  laugh  at  me?  " 

"Of  course  not." 

"  You  won't  —  honour?  " 

"Honour!" 

She  disappeared.  And  there  was  the  sound  of  many 
waters.  Julian  listened  to  it,  repeating  under  his  breath 
that  word  of  many  meanings,  that  panorama-word, 
honour.  Among  thieves,  among  prostitutes,  among 
murderers,  rebels,  the  lost,  the  damned  of  this  world, 
still  does  it  not  sing,  like  a  bird  that  is  too  hopeful  of 
some  great  and  beautiful  end  ever  to  be  quite  silent? 

Julian  waited,  while  Cuckoo  washed  away  her  sin  of 
paint  and  powder,  at  first  nervously,  then  with  a  certain 
zest  that  was  almost  violent,  that  splashed  the  water  on 
floor  and  walls,  and  sent  the  shivering  Jessie  beneath 
the  bed  for  shelter.  Cuckoo  scrubbed  and  scrubbed, 
then  applied  a  towel,  until  her  skin  protested  in  patches. 
Finally,  and  with  a  disturbed  heart,  she  approached  the 
sitting-room.  Her  voice  came  in  to  Julian  while  she 
remained  hidden: 

"I  say  —  " 

"Yes." 

"  I  know  you  will  laugh." 

"  Honour,  Cuckoo,  honour," 

"Oh,  all  right." 

And  she  came  in  to  him,   hanging  her  head  down, 


i88  FLAMES 

rather  like  a  child  among  strangers,  ashamed,  poor 
thing,  of  looking  respectable.  Julian  was  astonished  at 
the  change  the  water  had  wrought.  Cuckoo  looked 
another  woman,  or  rather  girl,  oddly  young,  thin,  and 
haggard  certainly,  and  the  reverse  of  dashing,  but  pretty, 
even  fascinating,  in  her  shyness.  As  he  looked  at  her 
and  saw  the  real  red  of  nature  run  over  her  cheeks  in 
waves  of  faint  rose  color,  Julian  understood  fully  all 
that  the  girl  gives  up  when  she  gives  up  herself,  and  the 
wish  —  smiled  at  by  Valentine  —  came  to  him  again,  the 
wish  to  reclaim  her. 

'*  Ah!  "  he  said.      **  Now  you  are  yourself." 

He  took  her  hand,  and  drew  her  in  front  of  the  mir- 
ror, but  she  refused  to  lift  up  her  eyes  and  look  at  her 
reflection. 

"I'm  a  scarecrow,"  she  murmured,  twisting  the 
front  of  her  gown  in  her  fingers.  Her  lips  began  to 
twitch  ominously.  Julian  felt  uncomfortable.  He 
thought  she  was  going  to  cry. 

*'  You  are  prettier  than  ever,"  he  said.      "  Look!  " 

**  No,  no.     It 's  all  gone  —  all  gone." 

♦♦What?" 

**  My  looks,  dearie.  I  could  do  without  the  paint 
once.     I  can't  now." 

Suddenly  she  turned  to  him  with  a  sort  of  vulgar  pas- 
sion, that  suspicion  of  the  hard  young  harridan,  typical 
of  the  pavement,  which  he  had  observed  in  her  before. 

"  I  should  like  to  get  the  whole  lot  of  men  in  here," 
she  said,   **  and  —  and  chew  them  up." 

She  showed  her  teeth  almost  like  an  animal.  Then 
the  relapse,  characteristic  of  the  hysterical  condition  in 
which  she  was,  came. 

*'  Never  you  treat  me  like  the  rest,"  she  said,  burst- 
ing into  sobs;  **  never  you  try  anythin'  on.  If  you  do 
I'll  kill  myself." 

This  outburst  showed  to  Julian  that  she  was  capable 
of  a  curious  depth  of  real  sentiment  that  gave  to  her  a 
glimpse  of  purity  and  the  divinity  of  restraint.  He  tried 
to  soothe  her  and  quickly  succeeded.  When  she  had 
recovered  they  went  out  together  to  see  about  the  mak- 
ing of  the  new  black  dress,  and  before  they  parted  he 


THE    LADY   WASHES   HER   FACE       1S9 

had  persuaded  Cuckoo  to  face  the  "  Empire  "  multitude 
on  the  fateful  evening  without  her  panoply  of  paint  and 
powder.  She  pleaded  hard  for  a  touch  of  black  on  the 
eyes,  a  line  of  red  on  the  lips.  But  he  was  inexorable. 
When  he  had  gained  his  point  he  comforted  her  anxiety 
with  chocolates,  a  feat  more  easy  than  the  soothing  of 
her  with  reasoning  could  have  been. 

When  he  told  Valentine  of  the  success  of  his  embassy, 
Valentine  simply  said: 

"  I  am  glad." 

Julian  did  not  mention  the  episode  of  the  washing, 
the  preparation  of  the  black  gown,  or  the  promise  wrung 
from  the  lady  of  the  feathers.  The  result  springing 
from  these  three  events  was  to  come  as  a  surprise  to 
Valentine  on  boat-race  night. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  DANCE  OF  THE  HOURS 

Even  so  huge  a  city  as  London,  full  of  so  many  vary- 
ing personalities  and  clashing  interests,  assumes  upon 
certain  days  of  the  year  a  particular  and  characteristic 
aspect,  arising  from  a  community  of  curiosity,  of  excite- 
ment, or  of  delight  felt  by  its  inhabitants.  Such  days 
are  Derby  day  and  boat-race  day.  On  the  latter  more 
especially  London  is  leavened  by  a  huge  mob  of  juve- 
niles from  the  universities,  and  their  female  admirers 
from  the  country,  who  cast  a  pleasant  spell  over  the 
frigid  indifference  of  town-bred  dullards,  and  wake  even 
the  most  vacuous  of  the  Piccadilly  loungers  into  a  cer- 
tain vivacity  and  boyishness.  The  cabmen  blossom 
cheerily  in  dark  and  light  blue  favours.  The  butcher- 
boys  are  partisans.  Every  gaynin  in  the  gutter  is  all  for 
one  boat  or  for  the  other,  and  dances  excitedly  to  know 
the  result.  London,  in  fact,  loses  several  wrinkles  on 
boat-race  day,  and  smiles  itself  into  a  very  pleasant  ap- 
pearance of  briskness  and  of  youth.  As  a  rule,  Julian 
went  to  see  the  race  and  to  lunch  with  his  friends  at 
Putney  or  elsewhere,  without  either  abnormal  experience 
of  excitement  or  any  unusual  vivacity.  He  was  natu- 
rally full  of  life,  and  had  hot  blood  in  his  veins,  loved  a 
spectacle,  and  especially  a  struggle  of  youth  against 
youth.  But  no  boat-race  day  had  ever  stirred  him  as  this 
one  did — found  him  so  attentive  to  outside  influence,  so 
receptive  of  common  things.  For  Julian  had  recently 
been  half-conscious  that  he  was  progressing,  and  with 
increasing  rapidity,  though  he  knew  not  in  what  exact 
direction.  Simply,  he  had  the  feeling  of  motion,  of  jour- 
neying, and  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  been  standing 
comparatively  still  for  years.  And  this  boat-race  day 
came  to  him  like  a  flashing  milestone  upon  the  road  of 

igo 


THE    DANCE    OF   THE    HOURS  191 

life.  He  felt  as  if  it  held  in  its  hours  a  climax  of  epi- 
sodes or  of  emotions,  as  if  upon  it  either  his  body  or  his 
mind  must  prepare  to  undergo  some  large  experience,  to 
meet  the  searching  eyes  of  a  face  new  and  unfamiliar. 

Possibly  the  reason  of  his  own  excitement  lay  in  the 
excitement  of  another,  in  the  curious  preparations, 
which  he  had  oddly  shared,  for  the  transformation  of 
the  unmistakable  into  the  vague.  For  the  transforma- 
tion of  Cuckoo  Bright  had  been  preparing  apace,  and 
Julian  was  looking  forward  like  a  schoolboy  to  the 
effect  which  her  novel  respectability  of  appearance 
would  have  upon  Valentine.  The  rouge-box  lay  lonely 
and  untouched  in  a  drawer.  Even  the  powder-puff  suf- 
fered an  unaccustomed  neglect.  The  black  gown  had 
been  tried  on  and  taught  to  fit  the  thin  young  figure,  and 
a  hat — with  only  one  feather — kept  company  with  the 
discarded  sarcophagus  which  had  given  to  Cuckoo  her 
original  nickname.  And  Cuckoo  herself  was  almost  as 
excited  as  Francine  when  she  received  her  muff.  She 
had  not  seen  Valentine  since  the  day  of  the  tea-party, 
yet  her  attitude  of  mind  had  undergone  a  change  towards 
him,  bent  to  it  probably  by  her  vanity.  Ever  since 
Julian  had  given  her  the  invitation  to  the  Empire  she 
had  displayed  a  furtive  desire  to  meet  him  again,  and  was 
perpetually  talking  of  him  and  asking  questions  about 
him.  Nevertheless  her  fear  of  him  had  not  died  away. 
Even  now  she  sometimes  exclaimed  against  him  almost 
with  vehemence,  and  made  Julian  renew  his  promise  not 
to  leave  her  during  the  evening.  But  Julian  could  see 
that  she  longed,  as  well  as  dreaded,  to  meet  him 
again.  After  all,  had  he  not  picked  her  out  from  all  the 
girlhood  of  London  as  one  to  whom  he  wished  to  do 
honour?  Had  he  been  the  Minotaur,  such  a  fact  must 
have  made  her  look  upon  him  with  desirous  interest. 

When  the  great  day  arrived  poor  Cuckoo  had  to  strug- 
gle with  a  keen  and  a  sore  temptation.  She  longed  to 
deck  herself  out  in  her  usual  borrowed  plumage,  to  take 
the  habitual  brilliant  complexion  out  of  the  accustomed 
drawer,  to  crown  her  frizzed  head  with  feathers,  and  to 
look  noisily  dashing  —  her  only  idea  of  elegance  and 
grace.     Never  before  had  she  so  desired  to  create  an 


192  FLAMES 

impression.  Yet  she  liad  given  Julian  her  most  solemn 
promise,  and  she  intended  to  keep  it.  As  she  slowly 
attired  herself,  however,  she  wondered  very  much  why 
he  was  so  set  upon  denuding  her  of  her  accustomed 
magnificence.  Her  mind  was  entirely  unable  to  grasp 
his  conception  of  beauty  and  of  attractiveness.  She 
thought  all  men  preferred  the  peony  to  the  violet.  To- 
night it  was  very  certain  that  she  would  be  no  peony, 
scarcely  even  a  violet.  Her  new  gown  had  been  expen- 
sive, but  it  was  terribly  simple,  and  the  skirt  hung  beau- 
tifully, but  was  surely  most  direfully  sombre.  Never- 
theless, it  rustled  with  a  handsome  sound,  a  melody  of 
wealth,  when  she  had  put  it  on  and  promenaded  about  her 
dingy  bedroom,  with  Jessie  at  her  heels,  pretending  to 
worry  it  playfully.  The  black  bodice  had  some  trim- 
ming. But  it  was  all  black.  Cuckoo  wished  it  had  been 
scarlet,  or,  at  the  least,  orange — something  to  catch  the 
eye  and  hold  it.  When  she  was  fully  attired,  and  was 
staring  into  her  glass,  between  two  boldly  flaring  gas- 
jets,  she  nearly  resolved  to  break  her  promise  to  Julian. 
She  even  went  so  far  as  to  paint  her  lips  and  eyes,  and 
was  charmed  with  the  effect  against  the  black.  But 
then  with  a  sudden  fury  she  sponged  her  pale  face 
clean,  threw  the  new  feather  boa  round  her  throat,  and, 
without  daring  to  glance  again  at  her  funereal  image, 
turned  out  the  gas,  and  went  into  the  sitting-room.  As 
usual,  her  last  act  was  to  ensconse  the  pensive  Jessie  in 
the  flannel-lined  basket,  and  to  give  her  a  kiss.  To- 
night, as  she  did  so,  she  let  a  tear  fall  on  the  little  dog's 
head.  She  scarcely  knew  why  she  cried.  Perhaps  the 
quiet  gown,  the  lack  of  paint  and  powder,  the  prospect 
of  kind  and  even  respectful  treatment  from  at  least 
Julian,  if  not  from  Valentine,  gave  to  her  heart  a  vision 
of  some  existence  in  which  Piccadilly  Circus  had  no  part. 
Jessie  shivered  as  she  felt  the  tear,  and  licked  the 
face  of  her  mistress  eagerly.  Then  Cuckoo  rustled 
forth,  avoiding  Mrs.  Brigg,  who  might  be  heard  labori- 
ously ascending  the  kitchen  stairs  to  view  her  in  her  gala 
attire.  In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  she  was  out  in  the 
street,  and  Mrs.  Brigg  returned,  swearing  gustily,  to  the 
lower  regions. 


THE    DANCE    OF   THE   HOURS  193 

Cuckoo  was  to  join  the  young  men  in  their  box,  of 
which  she  had  received  the  number.  She  took  a  cab  to 
the  Empire,  and  was  there  in  excellent  time.  As  she 
paid  the  man,  she  saw  several  women  going  noisily  in, 
dressed  in  bright  colours  and  gigantic  hats.  She  looked 
at  them,  and  felt  terribly  mean  and  poor,  and  it  was  with 
no  trace  of  her  usual  airy  impudence  that  she  asked  her 
way  of  the  towering  attendant  in  uniform  who  stood  at 
the  bottom  of  the  carpeted  staircase. 

Julian  and  Valentine  were  already  there.  They  turned 
round  as  she  came  in,  and  stood  up  to  receive  her. 
Julian  took  her  hand,  but  Valentine  hesitated  for  a 
moment.     Then  he  said: 

"  Is  it — can  it  be  really  Miss  Bright?  " 

"  Sure  enough  it  is,"  Cuckoo  answered,  with  an  effort 
after  liveliness. 

But  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  his.  She  had  seen  a  curi- 
ous expression  of  n  ingled  annoyance  and  contempt  flit 
across  his  face  as  she  came  in.  Why,  why  had  she 
allowed  Julian  to  over-persuade  her?  She  was  looking 
horrible,  a  scarecrow,  a  ghost  of  a  woman.  She  was 
certain  of  it.  For  a  moment  she  felt  almost  angry  with 
Julian  for  placing  her  in  such  a  bitter  position.  But  he 
was  glowing  with  a  consciousness  of  successful  diplo- 
macy, and  was  delighted  with  her  neat  black  aspect,  and 
with  her  smart,  though  small,  hat.  He  was  indeed  sur- 
prised to  find  how  really  pretty  she  still  was  when  she 
allowed  her  true  face  to  be  seen,  and  was  only  wishing 
that  she  had  made  a  little  less  of  her  hair,  which  was 
more  vigorously  arranged  even  than  usual.  He  glanced 
to  see  Valentine's  surprise. 

"You  are  so  altered,"  the  latter  continued.  "I 
scarcely  recognized  you." 

Cuckoo's  lips  tightened. 

"  Altered  or  not,  it's  me,  though,"  she  said. 

Valentine  did  not  reply  to  this.  He  only  made  her 
come  to  the  front  of  the  box,  and  placed  a  chair  for  her. 
She  sat  down  feeling  like  a  dog  just  whipped.  The  young 
men  were  on  each  side  of  her,  and  the  band  played  an 
overture.  Cuckoo  peered  out  over  the  bar  of  the  box, 
shifting  ever  so  little  away  from  the  side  on  which  Val- 


194  FLAMES 

entine  sat.  In  his  presence  all  her  original  and  extreme 
discomfort  returned,  with  an  added  enmity  caused  by  her 
secret  certainty  that  he  thought  her  looking  her  worst. 
She  peered  from  the  box  and  strove  to  interest  herself 
in  the  huge  crowd  that  thronged  the  house,  and  in  her 
own  dignified  and  elevated  position  in  it.  For  Valentine 
had  taken  one  of  the  big  boxes  next  the  stage  on  the 
first  tier,  and  Cuckoo  had  never  been  in  such  a  situation 
before.  She  could  survey  the  endless  rows  of  heads  in 
the  stalls  with  a  completeness  of  bird's-eye  observation 
never  previously  attained.  What  multitudes  there  were. 
Endless  ranks  of  men,  all  staring  in  the  same  direction, 
all  smoking,  all  with  handkerchiefs  peeping  out  of  their 
cuffs,  and  gold  rings  on  their  little  fingers.  Some  of 
them  looked  half  asleep,  others,  who  had  evidently  been 
dining,  threw  themselves  back  in  their  stalls,  roaring  with 
laughter,  and  leaning  to  tell  each  other  stories  that  must 
surely  have  teemed  with  wit.  Most  of  them  were  young. 
But  here  and  there  an  elderly  and  lined  figure-head  ap- 
peared among  them,  a  figure-head  that  had  faced  many 
sorts  of  weather  in  many  shifting  days  and  nights,  and 
that  must  soon  face  eternity — instead  of  time.  Yet  at 
the  gates  of  death  it  still  sipped  its  brandy  and  soda, 
smiled  over  a  French  song  with  tired  lips,  and  sat  for- 
ward with  a  pale  gleam  dawning  in  its  eyes  to  recon- 
noitre the  charms  of  a  ballet.  And  if  it  looked  aside  at 
youth  and  was  pierced  by  the  sword  of  tragedy,  yet  it 
was  too  well  bred  or  too  conventional  to  let  even  one  of 
the  world  around  witness  the  wound.  There  is  much 
secret  bravery  in  social  life.  But  these  elderly  figure- 
heads were  fewer  than  usual  to-night.  Youth  seemed  to 
have  usurped  the  playing-  grounds  of  pleasure,  to  have 
driven  old  age  away  into  the  shadows.  With  flag  flying, 
with  trumpet  and  drum,  it  gaily  held  the  field.  The  lady 
of  the  feathers,  Valentine,  and  Julian  leaned  out  from 
their  box  as  from  the  car  of  a  balloon  and  saw  below 
them  a  world  of  youth  hand  in  hand  with  the  world  of 
pleasure  the  gods  offer  to  youth  as  wine.  It  was  yet 
early  in  the  evening,  and  the  hours  were  only  tripping 
along,  as  women  trip  in  the  pictures  of  Albert  Moore. 
They  had  not  begun  to  dance,  although  the  band  was 


THE    DANCE    OF   THE    HOURS  195 

playing  a  laughing  measure  from  an  opera  of  Auber  that 
foams  with  frivolity.  Men  kept  dropping  in,  cigar  in 
mouth,  walking  to  their  seats  with  that  air  of  well- 
washed  and  stiff  composure  peculiar  to  British  youth, 
grim  with  self-consciousness,  but  affecting  the  devil- 
may-care  with  a  certain  measure  of  success.  Some  of 
them  escorted  ladies,  but  by  far  the  greater  number  were 
in  couples,  or  in  parties  of  three  or  four.  The  rose  of 
health,  or,  in  many  cases,  of  repletion,  sat  enthroned 
upon  their  cheeks;  on  the  upper  lips  of  many  the  mous- 
taches were  budding  delicately.  These  were  just  getting 
up  on  the  box  and  gripping  the  reins  for  the  great  coach- 
drive.  Little  wonder  if  the  veins  in  their  eager  hands 
stood  out.  Little  wonder  if  they  flourished  the  whip 
with  an  unnecessary  vehemence.  But  for  them,  too,  so 
far  the  hours  were  only  tripping,  a  slow  and  a  dainty 
measure,  a  formal  minuet.  And  they  were  but  watching. 
Only  later  would  they  rise  up  and  join  the  great  dance 
of  the  hours,  large,  complicated,  alluring,  through  whose 
measures  the  feet  of  eventual  saints  have  trod,  whose 
music  rings  in  the  ears  of  many  who,  long  after,  try  to 
pray  and  to  forget.  Some  who  were  with  women  made 
conversation  jocosely,  putting  on  travesties  of  military 
airs,  and  a  knowingness  of  expression  that  might  have 
put  the  wisdom  of  the  Sphinx  to  shame.  Nor  did  they 
hesitate  to  appear  amorous  in  the  public  eye.  On  the 
contrary,  their  attitudes  of  attention  were  purposely 
assumed  silently  to  utter  volumes.  They  lay,  to  all  in- 
tents and  purposes,  at  the  feet  of  their  houris,  as  Sam- 
son lay  shorn  at  the  feet  of  Delilah.  In  loud  young 
voices  they  told  the  secrets  of  their  hearts,  until  even 
the  clash  of  the  music  could  scarcely  keep  them  hidden. 
And  Delilah,  who  had  shorn  the  locks  of  so  many  Sam- 
sons, and  who  had  heard  so  many  secrets,  gave  ear  with 
a  clever  affectation  of  interested  surprise  that  deceived 
these  gay  deceivers  and  set  them  high  on  the  peaks  of 
their  own  estimation.  Two  or  three  family  parties,  one 
obviously  French,  seemed  out  of  place,  indecently  do- 
mestic in  the  midst  of  such  a  throng,  in  which  matri- 
mony was  a  Cinderella  before  the  ball,  cuffed  in  curl- 
papers rather  than  kissed  in  crystal  slippers.     Tbey  sat 


196  FLAMES 

rather  silent.  One  consisted  of  a  father,  a  mother  and 
two  daughters,  the  latter  in  large  flowered  hats.  The 
father  smoked.  The  mother  looked  furtive  in  a  bonnet, 
and  the  two  daughters,  with  wide  open  eyes,  examined 
the  flirtations  around  them  as  a  child  examines  a  butter- 
fly caught  in  a  net.  One  of  them  blushed.  But  she  did 
not  turn  away  her  eyes.  Nor  were  her  girlish  ears  in- 
active. Family  life  seemed  suddenly  to  become  dull  to 
her.  She  wondered  whether  it  were  life  at  all.  And  the 
father  still  smoked  domestically.  He  knew  it  all.  That 
was  the  difference.  And  perhaps  it  was  his  knowledge 
that  made  him  serenely  content  with  domesticity  and 
the  three  women  who  belonged  to  him.  Two  boys,  who 
had  come  up  from  a  public  school  for  the  race,  and  had 
forgotten  to  go  back,  sat  at  the  end  of  a  row  in  glisten- 
ing white  collars  and  neat  ties,  almost  angrily  observant 
of  all  that  was  going  on  around  them.  For  them  the 
dance  of  the  hours  was  already  begun,  and  already  be- 
come a  can-can.  They  watched  it  with  an  eager  interest 
and  excitement,  and  the  calm  self-possession  with  which 
some  of  the  men  near  them  made  jokes  to  magnificently 
dressed  women  with  diamond  earrings  struck  them  dumb 
with  admiration.  Yet,  later  on,  they  too  were  fated  to 
join  in  the  dance,  when  the  stars  affected  to  sleep  on 
the  clouds  and  the  moon  lay  wearily  inattentive  to  the 
pilgrims  of  the  night,  like  an  invalid  in  a  blue  boudoir. 
On  the  thick  carpet  by  the  wall  attendants  stood  loaded 
with  programmes.  One  of  them,  very  trim  and  respect- 
able, in  a  white  cap,  was  named  Clara  and  offered  a 
drink  by  an  impudent  Oxonian.  She  giggled  with  all  the 
vanity  of  sixteen,  happily  forgetful  of  her  husband  and 
of  the  seven  children  who  called  her  mother.  Yet  the 
dance  of  the  hours  was  a  venerable  saraband  to  her,  and 
she  often  wished  she  was  in  bed  as  she  stood  listening  to 
the  familiar  music.  In  the  enclosure  set  apart  for  the 
orchestra  the  massed  musicians  earned  their  living  vio- 
lently in  the  midst  of  the  gaily  dressed  idlers,  who  heard 
them  with  indifference,  and  saw  them  as  wound-up  mario- 
nettes. The  drummer  hammered  on  his  blatant  instru- 
ment with  all  the  crude  skill  of  his  tribe,  producing 
occasional  terrific  noises  with  darting  fists,  while  his  face 


THE   DANCE   OF   THE   HOURS  197 

remained  as  immovable  as  that  of  a  Punchinello.  A 
flautist  piped  romantically  an  Arcadian  measure,  while 
his  prominent  eyes  stared  about  over  the  chattering 
audience  as  if  in  search  of  some  one.  Suddenly  he  gave 
a  "  couac. "  He  had  seen  his  sweetheart  in  the  distance 
with  a  youth  from  Christ  Church.  The  conductor  turned 
on  the  estrade  in  the  centre  of  the  orchestra  and  scowled 
at  him,  and  he  hastened  to  become  Arcadian  once  again, 
gazing  at  his  flute  as  if  the  devil  had  entered  into  it.  In 
a  doorway  shrouded  with  heavy  curtains  two  acting  man- 
agers talked  warily,  their  hands  in  retreat  behind  their 
coat-tails.  They  surveyed  the  house  and  mentally  calcu- 
lated the  amount  of  money  in  it,  raising  their  eyes  to 
the  more  distant  promenade,  at  the  back  of  which  large 
hats  covered  with  flowers  and  feathers  moved  steadily  to 
and  fro.  One  of  them  curled  his  lips  and  murmured  the 
word  "Chant."  Then  they  both  laughed  and  strolled 
out  to  the  bar.  More  men  passed  in.  Many  could  not 
get  seats,  and  these  stood,  smoking  and  exchanging  re- 
marks in  the  broad  space  between  the  stalls  and  the 
wall.  Some  of  them  leaned  nonchalantly  against  it  and 
criticised  the  appearance  of  the  seated  audience,  or 
nodded  to  acquaintances.  Others  gathered  round  the 
bar,  and  a  few  looked  at  the  drop-curtain  as  if  they 
thought  their  ascetic  glances  would  cause  it  to  roll  up 
and  disappear.  The  overture  at  length  ended.  The 
stage  was  disclosed,  and  a  man  came  forward  with  a 
smirk,  and  a  wriggle  of  gigantic  feet,  to  sing  a  song. 

But  Cuckoo  Bright,  Valentine,  and  Julian,  from  their 
balloon-car,  still  surveyed  the  world.  Cuckoo  had  heard 
the  man  before.  She  was  no  stranger  to  the  upper 
regions  of  the  Empire,  but  the  fascination  of  knowing 
herself  watched  and  commented  on  from  the  stalls  was 
a  new  experience,  and  she  wished  to  make  the  most  of 
it.  Forgetting  that  she  was  not  painted  and  powdered, 
she  stretched  herself  into  view  and  believed  she  was 
creating  a  sensation.  So  absorbed  was  she  in  the  grand 
effort  of  being  seen,  that  when  Valentine  drew  his  chair 
a  little  closer  to  her  she  did  not  notice  it.  One  of  her 
hands  lay  on  her  lap,  the  other  being  on  the  ledge  of  the 
box    supporting  her    chin.     She    returned   eagerly  the 


X98  FLAMES 

glances  of  the  stalls.  The  hand  that  was  in  her  lap 
felt  another  hand  close  on  it.  Instinctively  Cuckoo  turned 
towards  Julian,  ready  to  smile.  But  Julian  was  gazing 
absorbed  at  the  crowd,  and  half  abstractedly  listening 
to  the  song  of  the  man  in  the  huge,  distorted  boots.  It 
was  Valentine  who  held  her  hand.  She  tried  to  draw 
it  away.  He  merely  tightened  his  grip  on  it  and  con- 
tinued sitting  in  silence,  not  even  looking  towards  her. 
And  as  he  held  her  hand  a  sense  of  helplessness  came 
over  Cuckoo.  Even  through  his  kid  glove  she  could 
feel  the  burning  heat  of  his  palm,  of  the  fingers  that 
clutched  hers  with  the  strength  of  an  athlete.  She  gazed 
towards  him  through  the  new  black  veil  that  was  drawn 
over  her  face,  and  it  seemed  even  to  her  limited  intel- 
ligence that  the  man  who  was  so  brutaly  holding  her 
against  her  will  could  not  be  the  man  at  whom  she  was 
now  looking.  For  Valentine,  whose  profile  was  set 
towards  her,  was  pale,  calm,  almost  languid  in  appear- 
ance. His  blue  eyes  were  glancing  quietly  over  the 
multitude,  with  an  air  of  indifferent  observation.  His 
lips  were  slightly  parted  in  a  sort  of  dawning  smile,  and 
his  whole  attitude  was  that  of  a  man  lazily  at  ease 
and  taking  his  pleasure  in  a  desultory  mood.  Yet  the 
hand  on  Cuckoo's  knees  was  vicious  in  its  grasp.  This 
startling  and  silent  contradiction  threw  her  into  a  com- 
plete panic,  but  she  did  not  dare  to  say  anything  in  pro- 
test. She  sat  silently  trembling,  and  drawing  her  lips 
together  in  growing  perturbation,  till  Julian  happened  to 
turn  towards  them.  Then  Valentine's  fingers  relaxed 
their  grasp  quietly,  and  slipped  away.  At  the  same 
time  he  moved  with  an  air  of  energy,  and  broke  into  gay 
conversation.  His  languor  vanished.  His  blue  eyes 
sparkled.  Julian  was  astonished  at  his  intense  vivacity. 
He  laughed,  made  jokes,  became  absolutely  boyish 

**Why,  Val,  how  gay  you  are!  "  Julian  said. 

**  Every  one  is  gay  to-night." 

He  was  interrupted  by  a  roar  of  laughter.  The  man 
in  the  boots  was  becoming  immoderately  whimsical. 
His  feet  seemed  to  have  escaped  from  control,  and  to 
be  prancing  in  Paradise  while  he  looked  on  in  Purgatory. 

"Every  one  is  gay." 


THE   DANCE    OF   THE    HOURS  199 

As  Valentine  repeated  the  words,  and  the  huge 
theatre  laughed  like  one  enormous  person,  Julian  felt 
again  the  strange  thrill  of  overmastering  excitement 
that  had  shaken  him  on  the  night  when  he  and  Valentine 
had  leaned  out  of  the  Victoria  Street  window.  The 
strength  of  the  spring  and  of  his  long  tended  and  re- 
pressed young  instincts  stirred  within  him  mightily. 
Scales  fell  from  his  eyes.  From  the  car  of  the  balloon 
he  gazed  down,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  they — Valen- 
tine, Cuckoo,  and  himself  —  were  drifting  over  a  new 
country,  of  which  all  the  inhabitants  were  young,  gay, 
careless,  rightly  irresponsible.  The  rows  of  open- 
mouthed,  laughing  faces  called  to  him  to  join  in  their 
mirth, — more,  to  join  in  their  lives,  and  in  the  lives  of  the 
pirouetting  hours.  He  moved  in  his  chair  as  if  he 
were  impelled  to  get  up  and  leave  his  seat.  And  as  he 
moved  a  voice  whispered  in  his  ear: 

'*  Let  us  eat  and  drink,  for  to-morrow  we  die." 

Was  it  Valentine's  voice?  He  turned  round  hastily, 
curiously  perturbed. 

"  Val,  was  that  you?     Did  you  speak  to  me?  " 

"No." 

Julian  looked  at  Cuckoo.  Her  cheeks  were  flushed, 
and  her  eyes  shone  with  dancing  excitement. 

"Did  you.  Cuckoo?" 

"  Not  I,  dearie.     I  say,  ain't  he  funny  to-night? " 

Then  the  voice  must  have  spoken  in  his  own  brain. 
He  listened  for  it  and  fancied  he  could  hear  it  again  and 
again,  driving  him  on  like  a  phantom  fate.  But  the 
voice  was  in  timbre  like  the  voice  of  Valentine,  and  he 
felt  as  if  Valentine  spoke  with  a  strange  insistence  and 
reiteration.  His  heart,  his  whole  being,  made  answer 
to  the  whisper. 

"  To-morrow  we  die.  It  is  true.  Ah,  then,  let  us  — 
let  us  eat  and  let  us  drink." 

The  man  in  the  boots  wriggled  furiously  into  the 
wings,  and  the  curtain  rose  on  the  ballet.  Wenzel  had 
ascended  to  the  conductor's  platform  amid  loud  ap- 
plause. The  first  weary  melodies  of  "  Faust  "  streamed 
plaintively  from  the  orchestra,  and  a  gravity  came  over 
the  rows  of  faces  in  the  stalls.     Julian's  face,  too,  was 


200  FLAMES 

grave,  but  his  excitement  and  his  sense  of  his  own  power 
of  youth  grew  as  he  looked  on.  The  old  Faust  appeared, 
heavy  with  the  years  and  with  the  trouble  of  useless 
thought,  and  Julian  felt  that  he  could  sneer  at  him  for 
his  venerable  age.  As  he  watched  the  philosopher's 
grandiloquent  pantomime  of  gesture,  like  a  mist  there 
floated  over  him  the  keen  imagination  of  the  hell  of 
regret  in  which  the  old  age,  that  never  used  to  the  full 
its  irrevocable  youth,  must  move,  and  a  passion  of  desire 
to  use  his  own  youth  rushed  over  him  as  fire  rushes  over 
a  dry  prairie.  Even  a  sudden  anger  against  Valentine 
came  to  him, —  against  Valentine  for  the  protection  he 
had  given  through  so  many  years.  For  had  he  not 
been  protecting  Julian  against  joy?  and  does  not  the 
capacity  for  joy  pass  away  with  a  tragic  swiftness?  As 
Faust  was  transformed  into  youth,  and  the  ballet  danced 
in  the  market-place,  Julian  turned  to  Valentine  and 
said: 

"  We  will  live  to-night." 

Valentine  laughed. 

"You  look  excited." 

"  I  feel  excited.     Do  n't  you?  " 

Valentine  answered: 

"I  may  presently.  We  mustn't  stay  in  here  all  the 
evening." 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door  of  the  box.  An  attend- 
ant appeared  to  ask  their  orders.  Valentine  spoke  some 
words  to  him,  and  in  a  few  minutes  he  brought  three 
long  drinks  to  the  box.  Julian  drank  his  mechanically. 
His  eyes  were  always  on  the  ballet.  The  betrayal  of 
poor  Margaret  had  now  been  accomplished  and  the 
soldiers  were  returning  from  the  wars.  Beyond  the  wall 
of  the  garden  the  tramp  of  their  feet  was  heard,  a  vision 
of  the  tops  of  their  passing  weapons  was  seen.  The 
orchestra  played  the  fragment  of  a  march.  Cuckoo 
sipped  her  brandy  and  soda,  and  gazed  sometimes  at  the 
stage  indifferently,  often  at  the  audience  eagerly,  and 
then  at  Julian.  When  her  eyes  were  on  Julian's  face  a 
light  came  into  them  that  made  her  expression  young, 
and  even  pure.  A  simplicity  hovered  about  her  lips, 
and   a   9ueer   dawning   of  something   that   was   almost 


THE   DANCE    OF   THE    HOURS  201 

refinement  spoke  in  her  attitude.     But  if  she  chanced  to 
meet  the  eyes  of  Valentine  her  face  was  full  of  fear. 

And  now  the  last  great  scene  of  the  pageant 
approached,  and  the  two  schoolboys  leant  forward  in 
their  stalls  in  a  passion  of  greedy  excitement.  Julian 
happened  to  see  them,  and  instead  of  smiling  at  their 
frankly  lustful  attitudes  with  the  superiority  of  the 
drilled  man  over  the  child,  he  was  conscious  of  an  eager 
sympathy  with  their  vigour  of  enjoyment  and  of  desire. 
His  nature  retrograded  and  became  a  schoolboy's  nature, 
with  the  whole  garden  of  life  flowering  before  its  feet. 
Suddenly  there  came  to  him  the  need  of  touching  some- 
thing human.  He  stole  his  arm  closely  around  Cuckoo's 
waist.  She  glanced  at  him  surprised.  But  his  eyes  were 
turned  away  to  the  stage.  Valentine  pushed  his  chair  a 
little  backwards.  He  was  watching  them,  and  when  he 
saw  the  movement  of  Julian's  arm,  he  laughed  to  him- 
self. The  classical  Sabbath  sprang  into  view,  and  it 
seemed  to  be  just  then  that  the  feet  of  the  hours  first 
began  to  move  in  the  opening  steps  of  their  great  dance 
of  that  night.  Was  it  the  magnificent  Cleopatra  that 
gave  them  the  signal?  Or  did  Venus  herself  whisper  in 
their  ears  that  the  time  for  their /<?/<?  was  come  at  length, 
that  the  paid  vagaries  of  the  stage  demanded  companion- 
ship, and  that  the  audience,  too,  must  move  in  great  pro- 
cessions, whirl  in  demon  circles,  rise  up  in  heart  to  the 
clash  of  cymbals,  bow  down  before  the  goddesses  of  the 
night,  the  women  who  gave  to  modern  men  the  modern 
heaven  that  they  desire  in  our  days?  The  stage  was  a 
waving  sea  of  scarlet,  through  which  one  white  woman 
floated,  like  a  sin  with  pale  cheeks  in  the  midst  of  the 
rubicund  virtues.  She  was,  perhaps,  not  beautiful,  but 
she  was  provocative  and  alluring,  and  her  whiteness  made 
her  as  voluptuous  as  innocence  is  when  it  moves  through 
the  habitations  of  the  wicked.  Julian  watched  her  come 
to  Faust  and  win  him  from  the  scarlet  dancers  and  from 
the  arms  of  Cleopatra,  and  the  strange  rejuvenation  of 
this  philosopher  who  had  been  old,  and  known  decaying 
faculties,  and  the  flight  of  the  heart  from  the  warm  closes 
of  the  summer  to  the  white  and  iron  winter  plains,  filled 
him  with  sympathy.     It  must  be  easy  to  use  your  youth 


ao2  FLAMES 

after  you  have  known  the  enforced  reserve  of  age.  For 
age  is  a  bitter  lesson.  The  dance  grew  more  wild  and 
rattling.  The  frou-frou  of  the  swinging  scarlet  skirts 
filled  the  great  house  with  sound  as  the  glitter  of  spangles 
filled  it  with  a  shimmering  light.  Faust  was  surrounded 
by  fluttering  women  moving  in  complicated  evolutions 
with  a  trained  air  of  reckless  devilry.  And  Julian  gave 
himself  to  the  illusion  created  by  the  skill  of  Katti 
Lanner,  ignoring  entirely  the  real  care  of  the  dancers, 
and  choosing  to  consider  them  as  merely  driven  by  wild 
impulse,  vagrant  desires  of  furious  motion,  and  the  dash- 
ing gaiety  of  keen  sensual  sensation.  They  danced  to 
fire  a  real  Faust,  and  he  was  Faust  for  the  moment.  His 
arm  closed  more  firmly  round  the  waist  of  Cuckoo,  and 
he  could  feel  the  throbbing  of  her  heart  against  the  palm 
of  his  hand.  He  did  not  look  at  her,  and  so  he  did  not 
see  the  dawning  anxiety  with  which  she  was  beginning 
furtively  to  regard  him.  Entirely  engrossed  with  the 
stage  spectacle,  the  movement  of  his  arm  had  been 
entirely  mechanical,  prompted  by  the  hardening  pressure 
of  excitement  in  his  mind.  If  he  had  actually  crushed 
Cuckoo  and  hurt  her  he  would  have  been  unconscious 
that  he  was  doing  it. 

And  Valentine  all  this  time  leaned  back  in  his  chair, 
that  stood  in  the  shadow  of  the  box,  and  looked  at  the 
enlaced  figures  before  him  with  an  unvarying  smile. 

Contrast  and  surprise  are  the  essence  of  the  successful 
"spectacle."  Just  as  the  scarlet  dervish  whirl  was  at 
its  height  the  character  of  the  music  changed,  slackened, 
softened,  died  from  the  angrily  sensuous  into  an  ethereal 
delicacy.  The  stage  filled  with  clouds  that  faded  in 
golden  light,  and  a  huge  and  glittering  stairway  rose 
towards  the  painted  sky.  On  either  side  of  it  hung  in 
the  blue  ether  guardian  angels  with  outstretched  wings, 
and  between  their  attentive  ranks  stood  the  radiant 
figure  of  the  purified  Margaret,  at  whose  white  feet  the 
red  crowd  of  women,  even  the  majestic  Cleopatra  and 
pale  voluptuous  Venus,  sank  abashed.  Harps  sounded 
frostily,  suggesting  that  crystal  heaven  of  St.  John,  in 
which  the  beauties  we  know  in  nature  are  ousted  by 
unbreathing  jewels,    the   lifeless  pearl   and   chrysolite. 


THE    DANCE    OF   THE    HOURS  203 

The  air  filled  with  thin  and  wintry  light,  that  deepened, 
and  began  to  glow,  through  lemon  to  amber  and  to  rose. 
The  angels  swam  in  it,  and  then  the  huge  stairway  leading 
up  to  heaven  shone  with  the  violence  of  a  gigantic  star. 
Faust  fell  in  repentance  before  the  girl  he  had  ruined  and 
failed  to  ruin,  the  girl  who  bent  as  if  to  bless  him  upon 
this  fiery  ascent  to  heaven.  And  Julian,  absorbed, 
devoured  the  wide  and  glowing  scene  with  his  eyes, 
which  were  attracted  especially  by  the  living  flames  that 
were  half  veiled  and  half  revealed  beneath  the  feet  of 
Margaret.  The  music  of  the  orchestra  rippled  faintly, 
and  then  it  seemed  to  Julian  that,  as  if  in  answer,  there 
rippled  up  from  the  golden  stairs  and  from  the  hidden 
company  of  flames  that  faint,  thin  riband  of  shadowy 
fire  which  had  already  so  strangely  been  with  him  in  the 
dawn  and  in  the  dusk.  It  came  from  beneath  the  pausing 
feet  of  the  girl  who  blessed  Faust,  and  trembled  upwards 
slowly  above  her  glittering  hair.  Julian  felt  a  burning 
sensation  at  his  heart,  as  if  the  tiny  fire  found  its  way 
there.  He  turned  round  sharply,  withdrawing  his  arm 
from  Cuckoo's  waist  with  an  abruptness  that  startled 
her. 

"Valentine!  "  he  exclaimed  in  a  whisper.  "There; 
now  you  see  it." 

Valentine  leaned  to  him. 

"See  what?" 

"The  flame.  It's  no  fancy.  It  *s  no  chimera.  Look, 
it  is  mounting  up  behind  Margaret.  Watch  it,  Valentine, 
and  tell  me  what  it  is." 

"  I  see  nothing." 

Julian  stared  into  his  eyes,  as  if  to  make  certain  that 
he  really  spoke  the  truth.  Then  Valentine  asked  of 
Cuckoo: 

"Miss  Bright,  can  you  see  this  flame  of  which  Julian 
speaks?  " 

Cuckoo  answered,  with  the  roughness  that  always 
came  to  her  in  the  company  of  alarm: 

"  Not  I.  There  ain't  nothing,  no  more  than  there 
was  that  day  when  I  had  the  coffee." 

She  added  to  Julian,  reproachfully: 

"You  've  been  drinkin*.     Now,  dearie,  you  have.** 


204  FLAMES 

Suddenly  his  two  companions  became  intolerable  to 
Julian.  He  thought  them  stupid,  boorish,  dense,  devoid  of 
the  senses  of  common  humanity,  not  to  see  what  he  saw, 
not  to  feel  as  he  felt, — that  this  vague  flame  had  a  mean- 
ing and  a  message  not  yet  interpreted,  perhaps  not  even 
remotely  divined.  With  an  angry  exclamation  he  sprang 
to  his  feet,  turning  once  more  to  the  stage.  And  as  the 
curtain  fell,  he  distinctly  saw  the  flame  glowing  like  a 
long  and  curiously  shaped  star  above  the  head  of  Mar- 
garet. 

And  this  man  and  woman  would  not  see  it!  A  sudden 
enmity  to  them  both  came  to  him  in  that  moment.  He 
abruptly  opened  the  door  of  the  box,  and  went  out  with- 
out another  word  to  either  of  them.  Cuckoo's  voice 
shrilly  calling  to  him  to  stop  did  not  affect  his  resolution 
and  desire  to  escape  from  them  if  only  for  a  moment. 

Out  in  the  corridor  at  the  back  of  the  dress  circle 
people  were  beginning  to  circulate,  relieved  from  the 
tension  of  examining  the  ballet.  Julian  was  instantly 
swallowed  up  in  a  noisy  crowd,  hot,  flushed,  loud-voiced, 
bright-eyed.  Masses  of  excited  young  men  lounged  to 
and  fro,  smoking  cigarettes,  and  making  fervent  remarks 
upon  the  gaily  dressed  women,  who  glided  among  them 
observantly.  From  the  adjoining  bar  rose  the  music  of 
popping  corks  and  flowing  liquids.  The  barmaids  were 
besieged.  Clouds  of  smoke  hung  in  the  air,  and  the 
heat  was  terrific.  Julian  felt  it  clinging  to  him  as  if 
with  human  arms  as  he  slowly  walked  over  the  thick  car- 
pet, glancing  about  him.  Humanity  touched  him  on 
every  side.  At  one  moment  an  elderly  woman,  with 
yellow  hair  and  a  fat-lined  face,  enveloped  him  in  her 
skirts  of  scarlet  and  black  striped  silk.  The  black 
chiffon  that  swept  about  her  neck  and  heaving  shoulders 
fluttered  against  his  face.  Her  high-heeled  boots  trod 
on  his.  He  seemed  one  with  her.  Then  she  had  van- 
ished, and  instantly  he  was  in  the  arms  of  a  huge  racing- 
man,  who  wore  gigantic  pink  pearls  in  his  shirt  front, 
and  bellowed  the  latest  slang  to  a  thin  and  dissipated 
companion.  It  seemed  to  Julian  that  he  was  kicked  like 
a  football  from  one  life  to  another,  and  that  from  each 
life  he  drew  away  something  as  he  bounded  from  it,  the 


THE    DANCE    OF   THE    HOURS  205 

V 

fragment  of  a  thought,  the  thrill  of  a  desire,  the  indrawn 
breath  of  a  hope.  Like  a  machine  that  winds  in  threads 
of  various  coloured  silks,  he  wound  in  threads  from  the 
various  coloured  hearts  about  him, — red,  white,  coarse, 
and  fine.  And,  half-unconsciously,  was  he  not  weaving 
them  into  a  fabric?  Never  before  had  he  understood 
the  meaning  of  a  crowd,  that  strange  congregation  of 
passions  and  of  fates  which  speaks  in  movements  and  is 
melodious  in  attitudes,  which  quarrels  in  all  its  parts, 
silently,  yet  is  swayed  through  and  through  by  large  im- 
pulses, and  as  an  intellect  far  more  keen  and  assertively 
critical  than  the  intellect  of  any  one  person  in  it.  And 
now,  when  Julian  began  to  feel  the  meaning  of  this 
surging  mob  of  men  and  women,  the  hours  danced, 
and  he  and  all  the  crowd  danced  with  them.  And 
the  music  that  accompanied  and  directed  the  feet 
through  the  figures  of  that  night's  quadrille  was  the 
music  of  words  and  of  laughter,  of  hissing  enticements 
and  of  whispered  replies.  Irresistible  was  the  perform- 
ance of  the  hours  and  of  the  crowd  that  lived  in  them. 
Julian  knew  it  when  the  dance  began,  marvelled  at  it  for 
a  little  when  the  dance  was  ended.  There  was  contagion 
in  the  air,  furtive,  but  strong  as  the  contagion  of  chol- 
era,— the  contagion  of  human  creatures  gathered  to- 
gether in  the  night.  Only  the  youth  who  dwells — like 
Will-o'-the-Mill  —  forever  by  the  lonely  stream  in  the 
lonely  mountain  valley  escapes  it  entirely.  Aged  saints 
look  backward  on  their  lives,  and  remember  at  least  one 
night  when  it  seized  them  in  its  embrace;  and  even  the 
purest  woman,  through  its  spell,  has  caught  sight  of  the 
vision  behind  the  veil  of  our  civilization,  and  although 
she  has  shrunk  from  it,  has  had  a  moment  of  wonder  and 
of  interest,  never  quite  effaced  from  her  memory. 

On  every  side  the  Oxford  and  Cambridge  boys  laughed 
and  shouted,  pushed  and  elbowed.  They  had  begun  to 
cast  off  restraint,  and  the  god  that  is  rowdy  on  a  rowdy 
throne  compelled  them  to  their  annual  obeisance  at  his 
feet.  Some  of  them  moved  along  singing,  and  inter- 
rupting their  song  with  shouts.  Friends,  when  they  met 
in  the  crowd,  yelled  shrill  recognitions  at  each  other,  and 
nicknames  sang  in  the  air  like  noisy  birds.     Rows  of  men 


2o6  FLAMES 

linked  arms,  and,  striding  forward,  compelled  the  throng 
to  yield  them  difificult  passage,  swinging  this  way  and 
that  to  make  their  progress  more  comprehensive.  The 
attendants,  standing  by  the  wall  like  giants,  calmly 
smiled  on  the  growing  uproar,  into  which  they  darted 
now  and  then  with  a  sudden  frenzy  of  dutiful  agility  to 
eject  some  rude  wit  who  had  transgressed  their  code  of 
propriety.  The  very  spirit  of  lusty  youth  was  in  this 
crowd  of  hot,  careless,  blatant,  roving  youths,  mad  to 
find  themselves  away  from  the  cool  and  grey  Oxford 
towers,  and  from  the  vacant  banks  of  the  Cam,  in  pas- 
sionate Leicester  Square,  fired  by  the  scarlet  ballet,  and 
the  thunder  of  the  orchestra,  and  the  sight  of  smart 
women.  Sudden  emancipation  is  the  most  flaming  torch 
to  human  passions  that  exists  in  the  world.  It  flared 
through  all  that  mob,  urging  it  to  conflagration,  to  the 
flames  that  burst  up  in  hearts  that  are  fresh  and  ardent, 
and  that  so  curiously  confuse  joy  with  wickedness. 

Flames!  flames!  The  word  ran  in  Julian's  mind,  and 
in  his  breast  flames  surely  burned  that  night,  for,  when 
he  suddenly  ran  against  Valentine  and  Cuckoo  in  the 
throng,  he  caught  Valentine  by  the  arm  and  said: 

"  Val,  you  were  right  just  now.  There  was  no  flame; 
there  could  have  been  no  flame  where  Margaret  stood. 
She  was  too  pure.  What  can  fire  have  to  do  with  snow? 
Cuckoo,  I  was  a  fool.     Catch  hold  of  my  arm." 

He  pulled  her  arm  roughly  through  his,  never  noticing 
how  pale  the  girl's  face  was,  how  horror-stricken  were 
her  eyes.  He  wanted  to  bathe  himself,  and  her,  and 
Valentine,  in  this  crowd  that  influenced  him  and  that  he 
helped  to  influence.  He  felt  as  the  diver  feels,  who, 
when  he  plunges,  has  a  sacred  passion  for  the  depths. 
There  are  people  who  have  an  ardour  for  going  down 
comparable  to  the  ardour  felt  by  those  who  mount.  To- 
night such  an  ardour  took  hold  of  Julian. 

Valentine  fell  in  with  it,  seeing  the  humour  of  his 
friend,  and  Cuckoo,  prisoned  between  the  two  men,  did 
not  attempt  to  resist  them.  As  they  moved  on  Valen- 
tine said,  in  a  voice  he  made  loud  that  it  might  be  heard: 

"Now,  you  feel  the  strength  of  the  spring,  Julian. 
Is  it  not  better  than  all  my  teachings  of  asceticism?  " 


THE    DANCE    OF   THE    HOURS  207 

"Yes,  by ,  it  is." 

And  as  he  made  that  answer,  Julian,  for  the  first  time, 
forgot  to  look  up  to  Valentine,  and  felt  a  splendid  equal- 
ity with  him,  the  equality  that  men  of  the  same  age  and 
temper  feel  when  they  are  bent  on  the  same  pursuit. 
How  can  one  of  two  Bacchanals  stoop  in  adoration  of 
the  other,  when  both  are  bounding  in  the  procession 
of  Silenus?  Valentine  fell  from  his  pedestal  and  became 
a  comrade  instead  of  a  god.  He  was  no  longer  the 
chaperon  of  the  dancing  hours,  but  their  partner.  And 
a  new  fire  shone  in  his  blue  eyes,  an  unaccustomed  red 
ran  over  his  cheeks,  as  he  heard  Julian's  answer  to  his 
question.  From  that  moment  he  ceased  to  play  what,  it 
seemed,  had  been  but  a  part,  the  empty  ivory  role  of 
saint.  For  Julian  was  no  longer  conscious  or  observant 
of  him,  no  longer  able  to  wonder  at  his  abrupt  trans- 
formation. In  a  flash  he  cast  off  his  habitual  restraint 
and  passed  from  the  reserve  of  thought  to  the  rowdyism 
of  act. 

He  chattered  unceasingly,  dressing  his  English  in  all 
the  slang  embroidery  of  the  day.  He  laughed  and 
chaffed,  exchanged  repartees  with  the  flowing  multitude 
through  which  they  passed,  stopped  to  speak  to  the 
flaunting  women  and  loaded  them  with  extravagant  com- 
pliments, elbowed  loungers  out  of  his  way,  and  made  the 
most  personal  remarks  on  those  around  him.  Two  men 
went  by,  and  one  of  them  exclaimed,  with  a  surprised 
glance  at  Valentine: 

"I'm  damned !  Why,  there  goes  the  Saint  of  Victoria 
Street." 

"Saint!"  said  the  other;  "I  should  think  devil  the 
more  appropriate  name.  That  chap  looks  up  to  any- 
thing." 

"Ah,  well;  when  a  saint  turns  sinner — ,"  answered 
the  first  speaker,  with  a  laugh. 

Valentine  heard  the  words  and  burst  into  a  roar  of 
laughter.  He  drew  Cuckoo  to  the  left  and  Julian  fol- 
lowed. They  passed  under  an  archway  into  the  bar, 
which  was  crowded  with  men,  drinking  and  talking  at  the 
tops  of  their  voices.  Valentine  called  for  drinks  in  a 
voice  so  loud  and  authoritative  that  the  barmaid  hurried 


2o8  FLAMES 

to  serve  him,  deserting  other  customers,  who  protested 
vainly.  He  forced  Cuckoo  to  drink,  and  Julian  needed 
no  urging.  Clinking  glasses  noisily  with  them,  he  gave 
as  a  toast: 

"  To  the  dance  of  the  hours!  " 

These  words,  uttered  with  almost  strident  force,  at- 
tracted attention  even  amid  the  violent  hubbub  that  was 
raging,  and  several  young  men  pressed  round  Valentine 
as  he  stood  with  his  back  against  the  counter  of  the  bar. 
They  raised  their  glasses,  too,  half  in  ridicule,  and 
shouting  in  chorus,  "To  the  dance  of  the  hours!" 
drained  them  to  this  toast,  which  they  could  not  com- 
prehend. Valentine  dashed  his  glass  down.  It  broke 
and  was  trodden  under  foot.  The  barmaid  protested. 
He  threw  her  a  sovereign.  The  young  men  gathered 
round,  broke  theirs  in  imitation,  and  Julian,  snatching 
Cuckoo's  from  her,  flung  it  away.  As  he  did  so,  Valen- 
tine thrust  another,  filled  with  champagne,  into  her  hand, 
and  again  cried  out  the  toast. 

"  What  the  deuce  does  he  mean  by  it? "  one  youth 
called   out.      "The  dance  of  the  hours;  what 's  that?  " 

"  The  dance  of  the  hours!  The  dance  of  the  hours!  " 
echoed  other  voices,  and  glasses  were  drained  wildly. 
There  was  something  exciting  in  the  mere  sound  of  the 
words  that  seemed  to  set  brains  jigging,  and  feet  mov- 
ing, and  the  world  spinning  and  bowing.  For  if  Time 
itself  danced,  what  could  the  most  Puritan  human  being 
do  but  dance  with  it?  Seeing  the  crowd  round  Valen- 
tine, men  who  were  drinking  at  the  other  end  of  the  bar 
joined  it,  and  the  toast  passed  quickly  from  mouth  to 
mouth.  Uttered  by  every  variety  of  voice,  with  every 
variety  of  accent,  it  filled  the  stifling  atmosphere,  and 
tickled  many  an  empty  brain,  like  the  catchword  polit- 
ical that  can  set  a  nation  behind  one  astute  wire-puller. 
Boys  yelled  it,  men  murmured  it,  and  an  elderly  woman 
in  a  plush  gown  and  yellow  feathers  screamed  it  out  in 
a  piercing  soprano  that  would  have  put  many  a  trumpet- 
blast  to  shame.  Glasses  were  emptied  and  filled  again 
in  its  honour.  Yet  nobody  knew  what  it  meant, 
and  apparently  nobody  cared,  except  the  Oxford  boy 
who  had  already  expressed  his  desire  to  be  better  in- 


THE    DANCE    OF   THE    HOURS  209 

formed  on  the  subject.  He  had  gradually  edged  his  way 
through  the  throng  until  he  was  close  to  Valentine,  at 
whom  he  gazed  with  a  sort  of  tipsy  reverence. 

"I  say,  you  chap,"  he  cried.  "What  are  we  drink- 
ing to — eh?     What  the  devil 's  the  dance  of  the  hours?  " 

Valentine  brought  his  glass  down  on  the  counter. 

"What  is  it?"  he  exclaimed.  "Why,  the  greatest 
dance  in  the  world,  the  dance  that  youth  sends  out  the 
invitations  for,  and  women  live  for,  and  old  men  die  with 
longing  for.  We  set  the  hours  dancing  in  the  night,  we 
— all  who  are  gay  and  careless,  who  love  life  in  the 
greatest  way,  and  who  laugh  at  death,  and  who  are  n't 
afraid  of  the  devil.  The  devil  's  only  a  bogey  to 
frighten  old  women  and  children.  What  do  the  hours 
care  for  him  ?  Not  a  snap.  It 's  only  cowards  who  fear 
him.  Brave  men  do  what  they  will,  and  when  the  hours 
dance  they  dance  with  them,  and  drink  with  them  all  the 
night  through.  Who  says  there  '11  be  another  morning? 
I  do  n't  believe  it.  Curse  the  sunshine.  Give  me  the 
night  and  the  dancing  hours!  " 

The  youth  gave  a  yell,  which  was  echoed  by  some  of 
his  rowdy  companions,  and  by  the  two  little  schoolboys 
who  had  joined  the  throng  in  a  frenzy  of  childish  excite- 
ment, which  they  thought  manly. 

"The  dancing  hours!  The  dancing  hours!"  they 
cried,  and  one  who  was  with  a  girl  suddenly  caught  her 
round  the  waist  and  broke  into  wild  steps.  Others 
joined  in.  The  confusion  became  tremendous.  Glasses 
were  knocked  over.  Whiskies  and  sodas  were  poured 
out  in  libations  upon  the  carpet.  The  protests  of  the 
barmaids  were  unheeded  or  unheard.  Julian  whirled 
Cuckoo  into  the  throng,  and  Valentine,  snapping  his 
long  white  fingers  like  castanets,  stamped  his  feet  as  if 
to  the  measure  of  a  wild  music.  Against  the  wall  some 
loungers  looked  on  in  contemptuous  amusement,  but  by 
far  the  greater  number  of  men  present  were  young  and 
eager  for  any  absurdity,  and  not  a  few  were  half  tipsy. 
These  ardently  welcomed  anything  in  the  nature  of  a 
row,  and  the  romp  became  general  and  noisy.  Men 
danced  awkwardly  with  one  another,  roaring  the  latest 
music-hall  tunes  at  the   pitch  of    their  voices.     The  wo- 


2IO  FLAMES 

men  screamed  with  laughter,  or  giggled  piercingly  as 
they  were  banged  and  trodden  on  in  the  tumult.  The 
noise,  penetrating  to  the  promenade,  drew  the  attention 
of  the  audience,  many  of  whom  hurried  to  see  what 
was  going  on,  and  the  block  round  the  archways  quickly 
became  impenetrable.  One  or  two  of  the  gigantic 
chuckers-out  forced  their  way  into  the  throng  and  seized 
the  dancers  nearest  to  them,  but  they  were  entirely  un- 
able to  stay  the  ridiculous  impulse  which  impelled  this 
mob  of  young  human  beings  to  capering  and  yelling. 
Indeed  they  merely  increased  the  scuffle,  which  rapidly 
developed  towards  a  free  fight.  Hats  were  knocked  off, 
dresses  were  torn.  The  women  got  frightened  and  be- 
gan to  scream.  The  men  swore,  and  some  lost  their 
tempers  and  struck  out  right  and  left.  Valentine 
watched  the  scene  with  laughing  eyes  as  if  he  enjoyed 
it.  Especially  he  watched  Julian,  who,  with  scarlet  face 
and  sparkling  eyes,  still  forced  Cuckoo  round  and  round 
in  the  midst  of  the  tumult.  Cuckoo  was  white,  and 
seemed  to  be  half  fainting.  Her  head  rested  helplessly 
against  Julian's  shoulder,  and  her  eyes  stared  at  him  as 
if  fascinated.  Her  dress  was  torn,  and  her  black  veil 
hung  awry.  If  she  danced  with  the  hours  it  was  with- 
out joy  or  desire. 

But  suddenly  police  appeared.  The  dancers,  abruptly 
realizing  that  a  joke  was  dying  in  a  disaster,  ceased  to 
prance.  Some  violently  assumed  airs  of  indifference 
and  of  alarming  respectability.  Many  sinuously  wound 
their  way  out  to  the  promenade.  A  few,  who  had  com- 
pletely lost  their  heads,  hustled  the  police,  and  were 
promptly  taken  into  custody.  Julian  would  have  been 
among  these  had  it  not  been  for  the  intervention  of  Val- 
entine, who  caught  him  by  the  shoulder,  and  drew  him 
and  Cuckoo  away. 

"No;  you  mustn't  end  to-night  in  a  cell,"  he  said  in 
Julian's  ear.  '*  The  dancing  hours  want  you  still.  Ju- 
lian, you  are  only  beginning  your  real  life  to-night," 

Julian,  like  a  man  in  an  excited  dream,  followed  Val- 
entine to  the  bottom  of  the  broad  stairs,  on,  through 
the  blooming  masses  of  flowers,  to  the  entrance.  Two 
or  three  cabs  were  waiting.     Valentine  put  Cuckoo  into 


THE    DANCE   OF   THE    HOURS  211 

one.  She  had  not  spoken  a  word,  and  was  trembling  as 
if  with  fear. 

"  Get  in,  Julian." 

Julian  obeyed,  and  Valentine,  standing  on  the  pave- 
ment, leaned  forward  and  whispered  to  him: 

"Take  her  home,  Julian." 

Suddenly  Julian  shouted  Cuckoo's  address  to  the 
cabman  hoarsely. 

The  cab  drove  away. 

Valentine  walked  slowly  towards  Piccadilly  Circus, 
whistling  softly,  "I  want  you,  my  honey;  yes,  I  do." 


BOOK  III 
THE  LADY  OF  THE  FEATHERS 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  LADY  OF  THE   FEATHERS 

The  thin  afternoon  light  of  an  indefinite  spring  day- 
shone  over  the  Marylebone  Road.  A  heavy  warmth  was 
in  the  air,  and  the  weather  was  peculiarly  windless,  but 
the  sun  only  shone  fitfully,  and  the  street  looked  sulky. 
The  faces  of  the  passers-by  were  hot  and  weary. 
Women  trailed  along  under  the  weight  of  their  parcels, 
and  men  returned  from  work  grimmer  than  usual,  and 
wondering  almost  with  a  fretfulness  of  passion  why  they 
were  born  predestined  to  toil.  The  cabmen  about 
Baker  Street  Station  dozed  with  nodding  heads  upon 
their  perches,  and  the  omnibus  conductors  forgot  to 
chaff,  and  collected  their  tolls  with  a  mechanical  delibera- 
tion. At  the  crossings  the  policemen,  helpless  in  their 
uniforms  of  the  winter,  became  dictatorial  more  readily 
than  on  cooler  days.  Some  sorts  of  weather  incline 
every  one  to  temper  or  to  depression.  The  day  after 
the  boat-race  lay  under  a  malign  spell.  It  seemed  to 
feel  all  the  weariness  of  reaction,  and  to  fold  all  men  and 
women  in  the  embrace  of  its  lassitude  and  heavy  hope- 
lessness. 

At  number  400,  Jessie  whined  pitifully  in  her  basket, 
and  her  arched  back  quivered  perpetually  as  her  minute 
body  expanded  and  contracted  in  the  effort  of  breathing. 
Her  beady  eyes  were  open  and  fixed  furtively  upon  her 
mistress,  as  if  in  inquiry  or  alarm,  and  her  whole  soul 
was  whirling  in  a  turmoil  set  in  motion  by  the  first  slap 
she  had  ever  received  in  gravity  at  the  hands  of  Cuckoo. 
Jessie's  inner  nature  was  stung  by  that  slap.    It  knocked 

213 


214  FLAMES 

her  world  over,  like  a  doll  hit  by  a  child.  Her  universe 
lay  prone  upon  its  back. 

And  Cuckoo's?  She  was  sitting  in  the  one  arm-chair 
with  her  thin  hands  folded  in  her  lap.  She  wore  the 
black  dress  given  to  her  by  Julian,  but  she  did  not  look 
prepared  to  go  out,  for  her  hair  was  standing  up  over 
her  head  in  violent  disorder,  her  cheeks  were  haggard 
and  unwashed,  and  her  boots — still  muddy  from  the  pre- 
vious night's  promenading — stood  in  a  corner  near  the 
grate  in  the  first  position,  as  if  directed  by  a  dancing- 
mistress.  Cuckoo  was  neither  reading  nor  working.  She 
was  simply  staring  straight  before  her,  without  definite 
expression.  Her  face  indeed  wore  a  quite  singularly 
blank  look  and  her  mouth  was  slightly  open.  Her  feet, 
stuck  out  before  her,  rested  on  the  edge  of  the  fender, 
shoeless,  and  both  her  general  appearance  and  attitude 
betokened  a  complete  absence  of  self-consciousness,  and 
that  lack  of  expectation  of  any  immediate  event  which 
is  often  dubbed  stupidity.  The  lady  of  the  feathers 
sitting  in  the  horsehair-covered  chair  in  the  cheap  sit- 
ting-room with  the  folding  doors  looked  indeed  stupid, 
pale,  and  heavy.  Fatigue  lay  in  the  shadows  of  her 
eyes,  but  something  more  than  ordinary  fatigue  hovered 
round  her  parted  lips  and  spoke  in  her  posture.  A  dull 
weariness,  in  which  the  mind  took  part  with  the  body, 
held  her  in  numbing  captivity.  She  had  only  broken 
through  it  in  some  hours  to  repulse  the  anxious  effort  of 
Jessie  to  scramble  into  the  nest  of  her  lap.  That  slap 
given,  she  had  again  relapsed  without  a  struggle  into 
this  waking  sleep. 

The  sun  came  out  with  a  sudden  violence,  and  an 
organ  began  to  play  a  frisky  tune  in  the  street.  Jessie 
whined  and  whimpered,  formed  her  mouth  into  the 
shape  of  an  O,  and,  throwing  up  her  head,  emitted  a 
vague  and  smothered  howl.  Below  stairs,  Mrs.  Brigg, 
who  was  afflicted  with  a  complaint  that  prompted  her  to 
perpetual  anxious  movement,  laboured  about  the  kitchen, 
doing  nothing  in  particular,  among  her  pots  and  pans. 
The  occasional  clatter  of  them  mingled  with  the  sound 
of  the  organ,  and  with  the  suffocated  note  of  Jessie,  in  a 
depressing  symphony.     The  sun  went  in  again,  and  some 


THE    LADY   OF   THE    FEATHERS       215 

dust,  stirred  into  motion  by  a  passing  omnibus,  floated 
in  through  the  half-open  window  and  settled  in  a  light 
film  upon  the  photograph  of  Marr.  Presently  the  organ 
moved  away,  and  faded  gradually  in  pert  tunes  down  the 
street.  Jessie's  nervous  system,  no  longer  played  upon, 
ceased  to  spend  its  pain  in  sound,  and  a  London  silence 
fell  round  the  little  room.  Then,  at  length,  Cuckoo 
shifted  in  her  chair,  stretched  her  hands  in  her  lap,  and 
sat  up  slowly.  The  inward  expression  had  not  faded 
from  her  eyes  yet,  for,  leaning  forward,  she  still  stared 
blankly  before  her,  looking,  as  it  seemed,  straight  at 
Marr's  photograph.  Gradually  she  woke  to  a  conscious- 
ness of  what  she  was  looking  at,  and  putting  up  one 
hand  she  took  the  photograph  from  its  place,  laid  it  in 
her  lap,  and,  bending  down,  gazed  at  it  long  and  ear- 
nestly.    Then  she  shook  her  head  as  if  puzzled. 

"  I  do  n't  know,"  she  murmured;  "  I  don't  know." 

Encouraged  by  the  sound  of  her  mistress's  voice, 
Jessie  stepped  from  her  basket  and  gingerly  approached, 
snuffling  round  Cuckoo's  feet,  and  wriggling  her  body  in 
token  of  anxious  humility.  Cuckoo  picked  her  up  and 
stroked  her  mechanically,  but  still  with  her  eyes  on  the 
photograph.  Two  tears  swam  in  them.  She  dashed  the 
photograph  down.  It  lay  on  the  carpet,  and  was  still 
there  when  a  knock  at  the  door  was  succeeded  by  the 
entrance  of  Julian. 

He,  too,  looked  pale  and  rather  weary,  but  excited. 

"Cuckoo,"  he  said. 

She  sat  still  in  the  chair,  looking  at  him. 

"Well?"  she  said,  and  closed  her  lips  tightly. 

He  came  a  step  or  two  forward  into  the  little  room, 
and  put  his  hat  and  stick  down  on  the  table. 

*'  You  expected  me  to  come,  did  n't  you?  " 

**  I  do  n't  know  as  I  did." 

Her  eyes  were  on  Jessie  now,  and  she  stroked  the 
little  dog's  back  steadily  up  and  down,  alternately 
smoothing  and  ruffling  its  short  coat.  Julian  came  over 
and  stood  by  the  mantelpiece. 

"  I  told  you  I  should  come." 

"Did  you?" 

"  Do  n't  you  remember?  " 


2i6  FLAMES 

She  shifted  round  in  the  chair  till  he  could  only  see 
her  shoulder,  and  the  side  of  her  head  and  neck,  on 
which  the  loose  hair  was  tumbling  in  ugly  confusion. 
Sitting  thus  she  threw  back  at  him  the  sentence: 

"I  don't  want  to  remember  nothing.  I  don't  want 
to  remember," 

Julian  stood  hesitating.  He  glanced  at  Cuckoo's 
hair  and  at  the  back  of  her  thin  hand  moving  to  and  fro 
above  the  little  contented  dog. 

"Why  not?"  he  said. 

At  first  she  made  no  answer  to  this  question,  and 
seemed  as  if  she  had  not  heard  it,  but  presently  it 
appeared  that  her  silence  had  been  caused  by  the  effect 
of  consideration,  for  at  length  she  said,  still  retaining 
her  aloof  attitude: 

"I  don't  want  to  remember,  because  it's  like  a 
beastly  dream,  and  when  I  remember  I  know  it  ain't  a 
dream." 

Julian  said  nothing,  and  suddenly  Cuckoo  turned 
round  to  him,  and  took  her  hand  from  Jessie's  back. 

"I  say.  You  were  mad  last  night.  Now,  weren't 
you?" 

The  words  came  from  her  almost  pleadingly,  and  her 
eyes  rested  on  Julian's  insistently,  as  if  demanding  an 
affirmative. 

*'  He  'd  made  you  mad,"  she  continued. 

"He,"  said  Julian.      "Who?" 

"Your  friend." 

"Valentine!     He  had  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

' '  It  was  all  his  doing. ' ' 

Her  voice  grew  shrill  with  feeling. 

"  He 's  a  devil,"  she  said.  "I  hate  him.  I  hate  him 
worse  than  I  hate  that  copper  west  side  of  Regent  Street, 
And  I  hate  you,  too, — yes,  I  do, — to-day." 

The  tears  gathered  in  her  eyes  and  began  to  fall,  tears 
of  rage  and  shame  and  regret,  tears  of  one  who  had  lost 
a  great  possession.  Julian  looked  embarrassed  and 
pained,  almost  guilty,  too.  He  put  out  his  hand  and  tried 
to  take  Cuckoo's.  But  she  drew  hers  away  and  went  on 
crying.     She  spoke  again  with  vehemence. 

"I  told  you  what  I  wanted  you  to  be;  yes,  I  did," 


THE    LADY    OF   THE    FEATHERS       217 

she  exclaimed.  **Yes,  I  told  you.  You  said  you  only 
come  here  to  talk  to  me." 

*'  It  was  true.  " 

"  No ;  it  was  n't.  You  're  just  like  all  the  others.  And 
I  did  so  want  to  have  a  pal.      I  've  never  had  one." 

With  the  words  the  sense  of  her  desolation  seemed  to 
strike  her  with  stunning  force.  She  leaned  her  head 
against  the  back  of  the  chair,  and  cried  bitterly,  catch- 
ing at  the  horsehair  with  violent  hands,  as  if  she  longed 
to  hurt  something,  to  revenge  her  loss  even  upon  an 
object  without  power  of  feeling.  Julian  sprang  up  and 
went  over  to  the  window.  He  looked  out  onto  the  road 
and  watched  the  people  moving  by  in  the  fitful  sunshine 
beyond  the  dirty  railings.  That  day,  he,  too,  was  in  a 
tumult.  He  felt  like  a  monk  who  had  suddenly  thrown 
off  his  habit,  broken  his  vows,  and  come  forth  into  the 
world.  The  cell  and  the  cloister  were  left  behind,  were 
things  to  be  forgotten,  with  the  grating  of  the  confes- 
sional and  the  dim  routine  of  service  and  of  asceticism. 
He  had  been  borne  on  by  the  wave  of  a  brilliant,  a  vio- 
lent hour,  away  from  them.  Let  the  angelus  bell  ring; 
he  no  longer  heard  it.  Let  the  drone  of  prayers  and 
praises  rise  in  a  monotonous  music  by  day  and  by  night; 
he  no  longer  had  the  will  to  heed  them.  For  there  was 
another  music  in  his  ears.  Soon  it  would  be  in  his  heart. 
Imagine  a  Trappist  suddenly  transported  from  the  desert 
of  his  long  silence  to  a  gay  plage  on  which  a  brass  band 
was  playing.  Julian  was  that  Trappist  in  mind.  And 
though  he  knew  Cuckoo  was  sobbing  at  his  back,  and 
though  his  heart  held  a  sense  of  pity  for  her  trouble,  yet 
he  heard  her  grief  with  a  strange  cruelty,  at  which  he 
wondered,  without  being  able  to  soften  it.  That  after- 
noon it  seemed  to  him  useless  for  anybody  to  cry.  No 
grief  was  quite  worth  tears.  The  violence  of  life  was 
present  with  him,  gave  him  light  and  blinded  him  at  the 
same  time.  He  found  delight  in  the  thought  of  violence, 
because  it  held  action  in  its  grasp.  Even  cruelty  was 
worth  something.     Was  he  cruel  to  Cuckoo? 

He  turned  from  the  window  and  looked  at  her,  with 
the  observation  of  a  nature  not  generally  his  own.  He 
noted  the  desolation  of  her  hair,  and  he  noted,  too,  that 


2i8  FLAMES 

she  wore  the  gown  he  had  given  to  her.  Would  she  have 
put  it  on  if  she  had  hated  him  as  she  said  she  did? 
Somehow  it  scarcely  seemed  to  suit  her  to-day.  It  looked 
draggled,  and  as  if  it  had  been  up  all  night,  he  thought. 
The  black  back  of  it  heaved  as  Cuckoo  sobbed,  like  a  little 
black  wave.  Was  the  eternal  movement  of  the  sea  caused 
by  some  horrible,  inward  grief  which,  though  secret, 
must  come  thus  to  the  eye  of  God  and  of  the  world? 
Julian  found  himself  wondering  in  an  unreasonable 
abstraction  as  he  contemplated  the  crying  girl.  Then 
suddenly  his  mind  swerved  to  more  normal  paths;  he 
was  seized  by  the  natural  feeling  of  a  man  who  has 
made  a  woman  weep,  and  had  the  impulse  to  comfort. 

"Don't  cry.  Cuckoo,"  he  said,  coming  over  to  her 
and  sitting  on  the  edge  of  her  chair.  "You  must  not. 
Let  us  say  I  was  mad  last  night.  Perhaps  I  was.  Men 
are  often  mad,  surely.  To-day  I  'm  sane,  and  I  want  you 
to  forgive  me." 

He  put  his  arm  round  her  shoulder.  She  glanced  up 
at  him.  Then,  with  the  odd  penetration  that  so  often 
gilds  female  ignorance  till  it  dazzles  and  distracts,  she 
said  quickly: 

"You  don't  mean  what  you  say;  you  don't  really 
care. ' ' 

Julian  was  taken  aback  by  her  sharpness,  and  by  the 
self-revelation  that  immediately  stabbed  him. 

"  You  must  n't  say  that,"  he  began.  But  she  stopped 
him  on  the  instant. 

"You  don't  care;  you  think  it's  nothing.  So  it 
ought  to  be  to  me,  I  know." 

That  had  perhaps  actually  been  his  thought,  the 
thought  of  a  mind  unimaginative  to-day,  because  dead- 
ened by  the  excitement  of  action.  But  if  it  was  his 
thought  he  hastened  to  deny  it. 

"  You  know  I  do  n't  think  of  you  in  that  way,"  he 
said. 

"  You  will  now.     You  do." 

That  was  the  scourge  that  had  lashed  her  all  through 
this  weary  day  of  miserable  reaction;  that  now  stung 
her  to  a  passion  that  was  like  the  passion  of  purity.  As 
she  made  this  statement  there  was  a  question  in  her 


THE    LADY   OF   THE    FEATHERS       219 

eyes,  but  it  was  a  question  of  despair,  that  scarcely  even 
asked  for  the  negative  which  Julian  hastened  to  give. 
He  was  both  perplexed  and  troubled  by  the  unexpected 
violence  of  her  emotion,  and  blamed  himself  as  the 
cause.  But,  though  he  blamed  himself,  his  regret  for  what 
was  irrevocable  had  none  of  the  poignancy  of  Cuckoo's. 
For  a  long  time  he  had  gloried  in  living  in  a  cloister  with 
Valentine.  Now  he  had  left  the  cloister,  he  did  not  look 
back  to  it  with  the  curious  pathos  which  so  often  gathers 
like  moss  upon  even  a  dull  and  vacant  past.  He  did  not, 
for  the  moment,  look  back  at  all.  Action  had  lifted 
scales  from  his  eyes,  had  stirred  the  youth  in  him,  had 
stung  him  as  if  with  bright  fire,  and  given  him,  at  a 
breath,  a  thousand  thoughts,  visions,  curiosities.  A 
sense  of  power  came  to  him.  He  did  not  ask  whether 
the  power  made  for  evil  or  for  good.  Simply,  he  was 
inclined  to  glory  in  it,  as  a  man  glories  in  his  recovered 
strength  when  he  wakes  from  a  long  sleep  following 
fatigue.  Cuckoo,  with  feeble  hands,  seemed  tugging  to 
hold  back  this  power,  with  feeble  voice  seemed  crying 
against  it  as  a  deadly  thing.  And  Julian,  though  he  strove 
to  console  her,  scarcely  sympathized  with  her  fully.  He 
could  not,  if  he  would,  be  quite  unhappy  to-day.  Only 
in  Cuckoo's  grief  he  began  to  read  a  curious  legend.  In 
her  tears  there  was  a  passion,  in  her  anger  a  vehemence 
that  could  only  spring  from  the  depths  of  a  nature. 
Julian  began  to  suspect  that  through  all  her  sins  and 
degradations  this  girl,  his  lady  of  the  feathers,  had  man- 
aged to  keep  shut  one  door,  though  all  the  others  had 
been  ruthlessly  opened.  And  beyond  this  door  was 
surely  that  holy  of  holies,  an  unspoiled  woman's  heart. 
From  what  other  dwelling  could  rush  forth  such  a  pas- 
sion for  a  man's  respect,  such  a  fury  to  be  rightly  and 
chivalrously  considered?  As  he  half  vaguely  realized 
something  of  the  true  position  of  Cuckoo  and  of  him- 
self, Julian  felt  stirred  by  the  wonder  of  life,  in  which 
such  strange  blossoms  flower  out  of  the  very  dust.  He 
looked  at  Cuckoo  with  new  eyes.  She  looked  back  at 
him  with  the  old  ones  of  a  girl  who  loves. 

As  he  looked  she  stopped  crying.      Perhaps  the  sud- 
den understanding  in  his  gaze  thrilled  her.     He  put  out 


220  FLAMES 

his  hand  to  touch  hers,  and  again  repeated  his  negative, 
but  this  time  with  greater  conviction. 

"  I  do  not  think  of  you  in  that  way.  I  never  shall," 
he  said. 

Her  face  was  still  full  of  doubt,  and  thin  with  anxiety. 
She  was  not  reassured,  that  seemed  apparent;  for  in  her 
ignorance  she  had  a  strange  knowledge  of  life,  and 
especially  a  strange  intuition  which  guided  her  instincts 
as  to  the  instinctive  proceedings  of  men. 

"They  always  do,"  she  murmured.  "Why  should 
you  be  different?  " 

"All  men  are  n't  alike,"  he  said,  pretending  to  laugh 
at  her. 

"Yes,  in  some  things,  though,"  she  contradicted. 
"They  all  think  dirt  of  you  for  doing  what  they  want." 

Seeing  how  unsatisfied  she  was,  and  how  restlessly 
her  anxiety  paced  up  and  down,  Julian  resolved  on  more 
plain-speaking. 

"Look  here,  Cuckoo,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  had 
never  sounded  more  boyish,  "  last  night  I  was  drunk. 
Last  night  I  woke  up,  and  I  'd  been  asleep  for  years." 

"  Eh?  "  she  interrupted,  looking  puzzled,  but  he  went 
on: 

"  I  was  emancipated,  and  I  was  mad.  Mind,  I  did  n't 
mean  to  do  you  any  wrong,  but  if  you  have  thought  of 
me  in  a  different  way,  I  'm  sorry.  Tell  me  what  you 
want  me  to  be  to  you,  and  in  future  I  '11  be  it." 

Hope  and  eagerness  sprang  up  in  her  eyes  then. 

"  I  say,"  she  began. 

"Yes." 

"  You  promise?  " 

"  I  promise." 

The  dull  blood  rose  in  her  tired  face. 

"  I  want  just  a — ^just  a  friend,"  she  said,  as  if  almost 
ashamed. 

Julian  smiled. 

"Not  a  lover,"  he  said,  with  a  fleeting  air  of  gal- 
lantry. She  shrank  visibly  from  the  word,  and  hurriedly 
went  on: 

"  Not  I.  I 've  had  too  much  of  love."  The  last  word 
was  spoken  with  a  violence  of  contempt.      "I  want  a 


THE    LADY   OF   THE    FEATHERS       221 

man  as  likes  me,  just  really  likes  me,  as  he  might  another 
man.     See? " 

"  And  you  '11  not  love  him?  " 

His  eyes  searched  hers  with  a  gaiety  of  inquiry  that 
was  almost  laughter.     Cuckoo  looked  away. 

"I  '11  not  love  him  either,"  she  said  steadily.  **I  '11 
just  like  him  too." 

Seeing  her  earnestness  and  obvious  emotion,  Julian 
dropped  his  gently  quizzing  manner,  and  became  earnest, 
too,  in  his  degree. 

"Then  it  's  a  bargain,"  he  said.  "You  and  I  are  to 
like  each  other  thoroughly,  never  anything  more,  never 
anything  less.      Like  two  men,  eh?  " 

She  began  at  last  to  look  relieved  and  happier. 

"Yes,  like  that, "  she  said.  "  Ain't  it — ain't  it  truer 
than  the  other  thing?  There  's  something  beastly  about 
love;   that  's  what  I  always  think." 

And  she  spoke  with  the  sincerest  conviction.  When 
Julian  left  her  that  day,  he  shook  hands  with  her  by  the 
door;  she  stood  after  he  had  done  it  as  if  still  half 
expectant. 

"There's  a  man's  good-bye  to  a  man,"  he  said. 
"  Better  sort  of  thing  than  a  man's  good-bye  to  a  woman, 
isn't  it?  " 

"Rather!"  she  said  hastily,  and  moved  back  into 
the  sitting-room.  She  stepped  on  something,  and  bent 
down  to  pick  it  up.     It  was  Marr's  photograph. 

"What's  that?"  Julian  asked. 

"  Nothing,"  she  said,  concealing  it.  She  had  a  fool- 
ish fancy  that  even  the  photograph  of  the  creature  she 
had  feared  and  hated  might  spoil  that  good-bye  of  theirs. 
Yet  even  as  it  was,  when  Julian  had  gone  she  still 
seemed  unsatisfied. 

She  was  a  woman  after  all,  and  woman  is  most  femi- 
nine in  her  farewells. 


CHAPTER    II 

VALENTINE    SINGS 

When  Valentine  heard  of  the  scene  in  Marylebone 
Road  he  smiled. 

"  How  extraordinary  women  are, "  he  said.  "  A  man 
might  give  his  life  to  them,  I  suppose,  yet  never  under- 
stand them." 

"  It  would  be  rather  jolly  —  making  that  gift,  I  mean," 
said  Julian. 

"You  think  so?     Since  last  night." 

"I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  that,  Valentine,  d'you 
blame  me?  " 

''Not  a  bit." 

"  Only  wonder  at  me?  " 

"  I  do  n't  even  say  that. " 

"  No;  but  of  course  you  must  wonder  at  me." 

Julian  spoke  almost  wistfully,  and  as  if  he  wanted 
Valentine  to  sweep  away  the  suggestion.  Last  night 
they  had  been  comrades.  To-day,  in  the  light  and  in 
the  calm  of  afternoon,  Valentine  seemed  much  more 
remote,  and  Julian  felt  for  the  first  time  a  sense  of 
degradation.  He  was  uneasily  conscious  that  he  might 
have  fallen  in  Valentine's  esteem.  But  Valentine  reas- 
sured him. 

"I  don't  wonder  at  you,  either,  Julian;  I  simply 
envy  you,  and  metaphorically  sit  at  your  feet." 

"That's  absurd." 

"Not  quite;  and  I  may  not  always  be  sitting  there, 
for  I  believe  I  have  really  got  a  little  bit  of  your  soul. 
Last  night  I  seemed  to  feel  it  stirring  within  me,  and  I 
liked  its  personality." 

"You  did  seem  different  last  night, "  Julian  said,  look- 
ing at  Valentine  with  a  keen  interest.      "  Can  it  be  pos- 

222 


VALENTINE    SINGS  223 

sible  that  those  sittings  of  ours  have  really  had  any 
effect?  " 

"  On  me  they  have;  not  on  you.  You  have  n't  caught 
my  coldness,  but  I  have  gained  something  of  your 
warmth.  Doesn't  that  perhaps  show  that  mine  was, 
after  all,  the  wrong  nature?  " 

"I  don't  know,"  Julian  said  doubtfully;  "you  look 
the  same." 

"  Do  I  ?     Exactly?  " 

Valentine  spoke  with  a  sort  of  whimsical  defiance,  as 
if  almost  daring  Julian  to  answer.  Yes.  And  Julian,  too, 
seemed  suddenly  doubtful  whether  he  had  stated  what 
was  the  fact.      He  looked  closely  at  Valentine. 

"  Do  you  think  your  face  has  changed?  Do  you  mean 
to  say  that?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  only  fancied  there  might  be  a  little  more  human- 
ity in  it,  that  was  all." 

"Once  or  twice  I  have  thought  I  noticed  something," 
Julian  said,  still  doubtfully;  "but  I  believe  it's  imagi- 
nation.    It  does  n't  stay." 

"When  it  does,  I  suppose  I  shall  be  able  thoroughly 
to  appreciate  all  your  temptations.  Do  n't  you  begin  to 
think  now  it 's  good  to  have  them." 

"  I  do  n't  know,"  Julian  said.  But  he  was  conscious 
that  there  had  come  a  change  in  his  attitude  of  mind 
towards  temptation.  Some  men  glory  in  resisting  temp- 
tation, others  in  yielding  to  it.  Hitherto  Julian  had  not 
been  able  to  range  himself  in  either  of  these  two  opposed 
camps.  He  had  merely  hated  his  faculty  for  being 
tempted.  Did  he  entirely  hate  it  now?  He  could  not 
say  so  to  himself,  whatever  he  might  say  to  others,  but 
something  kept  him  from  making  confession  of  the  truth 
to  Valentine.  So  he  professed  ignorance  of  his  own 
exact  state  of  feeling;  really,  had  he  analyzed  his  reti- 
cence, it  sprang  from  a  fine  desire  to  give  forth  no  breath 
that  might  tarnish  the  clear  mirror  of  Valentine's  nature. 
He  would  not  admit  a  change  that  might  make  his  friend 
again  fall  into  the  absurd  dissatisfaction  which  he  had 
combated  on  the  night  of  their  first  sitting  in  the  tent- 
room.  While  they  talked  the  afternoon  had  fallen  into  a 
creeping  twilight.    In  the  twilight  the  front  door  bell  rang. 


224  FLAMES 

**Some  late  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  cham- 
ber door, "  Valentine  said,  quoting  Poe.  "It  must  be 
the  doctor." 

Julian  reddened  suddenly. 

"  I  hope  not,"  he  said. 

"What?"  Valentine  cried.  "You  don't  want  our 
little  doctor?  " 

*'  Somehow  not — to-day." 

The  door  opened  and  Doctor  Levillier  entered.  Val- 
entine greeted  him  warmly.  They  had  not  met  since 
the  night  of  the  affray  with  the  mastiffs.  In  Julian's 
manner  there  was  a  touch  of  awkwardness  as  he  shook 
hands  with  the  doctor.  Levillier  did  not  seem  to  notice 
it.     He  looked  very  tired  and  rather  depressed. 

**Cresswell,"  he  said,  "I  have  come  toyoufor  atonic. " 

*'  Doctor  coming  to  patient!  " 

*'  Doctors  take  medicine  oftener  than  you  may  sup- 
pose. I  'm  in  bad  spirits  to-day.  I  've  been  trying  to  cure 
too  many  people  lately.     It 's  hard  work." 

"It  must  be.  Sit  down  and  forget.  Imagine  the 
world  beautifully  incurable  and  your  occupation  conse- 
quently gone." 

The  doctor  sat  down,  saying: 

"  My  imagination  stops  short  at  that  feat." 

He  kept  silence  for  a  moment,  then  he  said: 

"You  know  what  I  want." 

"  No,"  Valentine  answered.  "  But  I  '11  do  anything. 
You  know  that." 

"  I  want  your  music." 

Valentine  suddenly  became  unresponsive.  He  did  n't 
speak  at  first,  and  both  Julian  and  the  doctor  glanced  at 
him  in  some  surprise. 

"Oh,  you  want  me  to  be  David  to  your  Saul,"  he 
said  at  length. 

"Yes." 

"  Do,  Val,"  said  Julian.     "  I  should  like  it  too." 

Valentine,  who  was  sitting  near  the  doctor,  looked 
down  thoughtfully  on  the  carpet. 

"  I  'm  not  in  the  mood  to-day,"  he  said  slowly. 

"You  are  always  in  the  mood  enough  to  cheer  and 
rest  me,"  Levillier  said. 


VALENTINE   SINGS  225 

He  had  driven  all  the  way  from  Harley  Street  for  his 
medicine,  and  it  was  obvious  that  he  meant  to  have  it. 
But  Valentine  still  hesitated,  and  a  certain  slight  con- 
fusion became  noticeable  in  his  manner.  Moving  the 
toe  of  his  right  boot  to  and  fro,  following  the  pattern  of 
the  carpet,  he  glanced  sideways  at  the  doctor,  and  an 
odd  smile  curved  his  lips. 

"Doctor,"  he  said,  "d'you  believe  that  talents  can 
die  in  us  while  we  ourselves  live?  " 

"  That 's  a  strange  question." 

"  It 's  waiting  an  answer." 

"Well,  my  answer  is.  No;  not  wholly,  unless  through 
the  approach  of  old  age,  or  the  development  of  mad- 
ness." 

"  I  'm  neither  old  nor  mad. " 

Levillier  and  Julian  both  looked  at  Valentine  with 
some  amazement. 

"Are  you  talking  about  yourself?"  the  doctor  asked. 

"  Certainly. " 

"  Why?     What  talent  is  dead  in  you?  " 

"  My  talent  for  music.  Do  you  know  that  for  the 
last  few  days  I  've  been  able  neither  to  sing  nor  play?  " 

"  Val,  you  're  joking,"  exclaimed  Julian. 

"  I  am  certainly  not,"  he  answered,  and  quite  gravely. 
"  I  am  simply  stating  a  fact." 

Doctor  Levillier  seemed  unable  to  appreciate  that  he 
was  speaking  seriously. 

"  I  have  come  all  this  way  to  hear  you  sing,"  he  said. 
"  I  have  never  asked  you  in  vain  yet. " 

"Is  it  my  fault  if  you  ask  me  in  vain  now?  " 

Valentine  looked  him  in  the  face  and  spoke  with  a 
complete  sincerity.  The  doctor  returned  the  glance,  as 
he  sometimes  returned  the  glance  of  a  patient,  very  di- 
rectly, with  a  clear  and  simple  gravity.  Having  done 
this  he  felt  completely  puzzled. 

"The  talent  for  music  has  died  in  you?"  he  asked, 

"  Entirely.  I  can  do  nothing  with  my  piano.  I  have 
even  locked  it." 

As  he  spoke  he  went  over  to  it  and  pulled  at  the  lid 
to  show  them  that  he  was  speaking  the  truth. 

"Where  's  the  key?  "  asked  the  doctor. 


226  FLAMES 

**  Here, "  said  Valentine,  producing  it  from  his  pocket. 

**  Give  it  to  me,"  said  the  doctor. 

Valentine  did  so  and  the  doctor  quietly  opened  the 
piano,  drew  up  the  music-stool,  and  signed  to  Valentine 
to  sit  down. 

"If  you  mean  what  you  say,  the  explanation  must 
simply  be  that  you  are  suffering  from  some  form  of  hys- 
teria," he  said,  rather  authoritatively.  "  Now  sing  me 
something.      No;  I  won't  let  you  off." 

Valentine,  sitting  on  the  stool,  extended  his  hands 
and  laid  the  tips  of  his  long  fingers  upon  the  keys,  but 
without  sounding  them. 

"You  insist  on  my  trying  to  sing? "  he  asked. 

**I  do." 

"I  warn  you,  doctor,  you  will  be  sorry  if  I  do.  My 
voice  is  quite  out  of  order." 

"No  matter." 

"Go  on,  Val,"  cried  Julian,  from  his  arm-chair. 
"Anybody  would  think  you  were  a  young  lady." 

Valentine  bent  his  head,  with  a  quick  gesture  of  abne- 
gation. 

"As  you  will,"  he  said. 

He  struck  his  hand  down  upon  the  keys  as  he  spoke. 
That  was  the  strangest  prelude  ever  heard.  In  their 
different  ways  Doctor  Levillier  and  Julian  were  both  in- 
tensely fond  of  music,  both  quickly  stirred  by  it  when  it 
was  good,  not  merely  classical,  but  extravagant,  violent, 
and  in  any  way  interesting.  Each  of  them  had  heard 
Valentine  play,  not  once  only,  but  a  hundred  times. 
They  knew  not  simply  his  large  repertoire  of  pieces  and 
songs  through  and  through,  but  also  the  peculiar  and 
characteristic  progressions  of  his  improvisations,  the 
ornaments  he  most  delighted  in,  the  wildness  of  his  mel- 
ancholy, the  phantasy  of  his  gaieties;  and  they  knew 
every  tone  of  his  voice,  which  expressed  with  an  exqui- 
site realism  the  temperament  of  his  soul.  But  now,  as 
Valentine's  hands  powerfully  struck  the  keys,  they  both 
started  and  exchanged  an  involuntary  glance  of  keen 
surprise.  The  first  few  bars  gave  the  lie  to  Valentine's 
assertion  that  he  could  no  longer  play,  A  cataract  of 
notes  streamed  from  beneath  his  fingers,  and  of  notes  so 


VALENTINE   SINGS  227 

curiously  combined,  or  following  each  other  in  such  a 
fantastic  array,  that  they  seemed  arranged  in  the  musi- 
cal pattern  by  an  intelligence  of  the  strangest  order.  It 
is  often  easy  for  a  cultivated  ear  to  detect  whether  a 
given  composition  has  sprung  from  the  brain  of  a  French- 
man, a  German,  a  Hungarian,  a  Russian.  The  wildness 
of  Bohemia,  too,  may  be  identified,  or  the  vague  sorrow 
of  that  northern  melody  which  seems  an  echo  of  voices 
heard  amid  the  fiords  or  in  pale  valleys  near  the  farthest 
cape  of  Europe.  And  then  there  is  that  large  and  lofty 
music  of  the  stars  and  the  spheres,  of  the  mightiest  pas- 
sions and  of  the  deepest  imaginings,  that  is  of  no  defi- 
nite country,  but  seems  to  be  of  its  own  power  and 
beauty,  and  not  of  the  brain  and  heart  of  any  one  man. 
It  exists  for  eternity,  and  its  creator  can  only  wonder 
and  worship  before  it,  far  from  conceit  as  God  was  when 
He  said,  "Let  there  be  light."  Such  music,  too,  is 
recognized  on  the  instant  by  the  men  who  have  loved 
and  studied  the  secrets  of  the  most  divine  of  the  arts, 
for  profound  genius  can  utter  itself  as  easily  in  five  notes 
as  in  fifty.  But  the  prelude  now  played  by  Valentine 
was  neither  the  great  music  that  is  of  all  time  and  of  all 
countries,  nor  the  music  that  is  of  any  one  country.  It 
was  not  even  distinctively  northern  or  southern  in  char- 
acter, impregnated  with  the  mystery  of  the  tuneless, 
wonderful  East,  or  with  the  peculiar  homeliness  that 
stirs  Western  hearts.  Both  the  doctor  and  Julian  felt, 
as  they  listened,  that  it  was  music  without  an  earthly 
home,  without  location,  devoid  of  that  sense  of  relation 
to  humanity  which  links  the  greatness  of  the  arts  to  the 
smallness  of  those  who  follow  them.  Eccentric  the 
music  was,  but  the  eccentricity  of  it  seemed  almost  in- 
human, so  unmannerly  as  to  be  beyond  the  range  of  the 
most  uncouth  man,  in  advance  of  the  invention  of  any 
mind,  however  coarse  and  criminal.  That  was  the  atmos- 
phere of  this  prelude,  excessive,  unutterable,  crude, 
sombre  vulgarity  of  a  detached  and  remote  kind.  As 
Levillier  listened  to  it  amazed,  he  found  that  he  did  not 
instinctively  connect  the  vulgarity  with  any  human  traits, 
or  translate  the  notes  into  acts  within  his  experience. 
He  was  simply  conscious  of  being  brought  to  the  verge 


228  FLAMES 

of  some  sphere  in  which  the  sordidness  attained  by  our 
race  would  be  sneered  at  as  delicacy,  in  which  our  low- 
est grovellings  of  the  pigsty  would  be  as  lofty  flights 
through  the  skies.  And  the  hideous  eccentricity  of  the 
music,  its  wanton  desolation,  deepened  until  both  Levil- 
lier  and  Julian  were  pale  under  its  spell,  shrank  from  its 
ardent,  its  merciless  and  lambent  sarcasm  against  all 
things  refined  or  beautiful.  The  prelude  was  as  fire  and 
sword,  as  plague  and  famine,  as  plunder  and  war,  as  all 
instruments  that  lay  waste  and  that  wound,  a  destroying 
angel  before  whose  breath  the  first-born  withered  and 
the  very  sun  shrivelled  into  a  heap  of  grey  ashes. 

As  Doctor  Levillier  leaned  forward,  moved  by  an 
irresistible  impulse,  and  stretched  out  his  hand  to  enforce 
silence  from  this  blare  of  deplorable  melody,  Valentine 
looked  up  at  him,  into  his  eyes,  and  began  to  sing.  The 
doctor's  movement  was  arrested,  his  hand  dropped  to  his 
side,  he  remained  tense,  frigid,  his  eyes  fastened  on  Val- 
entine's like  a  man  mesmerised.  At  first  he  knew  that 
he  was  wondering  whether  his  brain  was  playing  him  a 
trick,  whether  his  sense  of  hearing  had,  by  some  means, 
become  impaired,  so  that  he  heard  a  voice,  not  dimly,  as 
is  the  case  with  the  partially  deaf,  but  wrongly,  as  may 
be  the  case  with  the  mad,  or  with  those  who  have  suf- 
fered under  a  blow  or  through  an  injury  to  the  brain. 
For  this  voice  was  not  Valentine's  at  all,  but  the  voice  of 
a  stranger,  powerful,  harsh,  and  malignant.  It  rang 
through  the  room  noisily.  A  thick  hoarseness  dressed  it 
as  in  disease,  and  at  moments  broke  it  and  crushed  it 
down.  Then  it  would  emerge  as  in  a  sigh  or  wail,  push- 
ing its  way  up  with  all  the  mechanical  power  of  the  voice 
of  a  wild  animal,  and  mounting  to  a  desperate  climax, 
sinister  and  alarming.  So  unlike  ordinary  singing  was 
the  performance  of  this  voice  that,  after  the  first  paraly- 
sis of  surprise  and  disgust  had  passed  away  from  the 
doctor  and  Julian,  they  both  felt  the  immediate  neces- 
sity of  putting  a  period  to  this  deadly  song,  to  which  no 
words  gave  the  faintest  touch  of  humanity.  They  knew 
that  it  must  attract  and  rivet  the  attention  of  others  in 
the  mansions,  even  possibly  of  passers-by  in  the  street. 


VALENTINE   SINGS  229 

The  doctor  withdrew  his  gaze  from  Valentine's  at  length, 
and  turned  hastily  to  Julian,  whom  he  found  regarding 
him  with  a  glance  almost  of  horror. 

"Stop  him,"  Julian  murmured. 

**You!"  answered  Levillier. 

And  then  each  knew  that  the  other  was  in  some  ner- 
vous crisis  that  rendered  action  almost  an  impossibility. 
And  while  they  thus  hesitated  there  came  a  loud,  re- 
peated, and  unsteady  knock  at  the  door.  Julian  opened 
it.  Valentine's  man  was  standing  outside,  pale  and 
anxious. 

"  Good  God,  sir,"  he  ejaculated.  "What  is  it?  What 
on  earth  is  the  matter?  " 

The  man's  exclamation  broke  through  Julian's  frost 
of  inaction.     He  whispered  to  Wade : 

"It's  all  right,"  pushed  him  out  and  shut  the  door. 
Then  he  went  straight  up  to  the  piano,  seized  Valen- 
tine's hands  and  dragged  them  from  the  keyboard. 

The  silence  was  like  a  sweet  blow. 

"  I  said  my  voice  was  out  of  order,"  Valentine  said, 
simply  and  with  a  smile. 

"  You  did  not  say  you  had  another  voice,  the  voice  of 
—  of  a  devil,"  Julian  said,  almost  falteringly,  for  he  was 
still  shaken  by  his  distress  of  the  senses,  into  a  mental 
condition  that  was  almost  anger. 

Dr.  Levillier  said  nothing.  More  sensitive  to  musical 
sounds  than  Julian,  he  dared  not  speak,  lest  he  should 
say  something  that  might  stand  like  a  fixed  gulf  to  eter- 
nally separate  him  from  Valentine.  He  knew  the  future 
that  stretches  out  like  a  spear  beyond  one  word.  So  he 
sat  quietly  with  his  eyes  on  the  ground.  His  lips  were 
set  firmly  together.     Valentine  turned  to  observe  him. 

"  Doctor,  you  're  not  angry?  "  he  asked. 

The  doctor  made  no  reply, 

"You  know  I  warned  you,"  Valentine  went  on. 
"  You  brought  this  thing  on  yourself." 

"  Yes,"  said  Levillier. 

But  Julian  interposed. 

"  No  Valentine,"  he  exclaimed.  "  For,  of  course,  it  is 
all  a  trick  of  yours.    You  did  n't  want  to  sing.    We  made 


330  FLAMES 

you.  This  is  your  revenge,  eh?  I  did  n't  know  you  had 
it  in  you  to  be  so  —  so  beastly  and  cantankerous." 

Valentine  shook  his  head. 

"It  's  no  trick.  It 's  simply  as  I  said.  My  talent  for 
music  is  dead.  You  have  been  listening  to  the  voice  of 
its  corpse." 

Dr.  Levillier  looked  up  at  length. 

"You  really  mean  that?  "  he  said,  and  there  was  an 
awakening  within  him  of  his  normal  ready  interest  in  all 
things. 

"I  mean  it  absolutely." 

"That  is  the  only  event  in  which  I  can  forgive  the 
torture  you  have  been  inflicting  upon  me." 

*'  That  is  the  true  event. " 

"  But  it 's  not  possible, "  Julian  said.  "  It 's  not  con- 
ceivable.    Surely,  doctor,  you  would  not  say  —  " 

The  doctor  interrupted  him. 

"I  cannot  believe  that  Cresswell  would  deliberately 
commit  an  outrage  upon  me,"  he  said.  "And  it  would 
be  an  outrage  to  sing  like  that  to  a  tired  man.  Weeks  of 
work  would  not  fatigue  me  as  I  am  fatigued  by  Cress- 
well's  music." 

Julian  was  silent  and  looked  uneasy.  Valentine  re- 
peated again: 

' '  I  could  n't  help  it.     I  am  sorry. " 

Doctor  Levillier  ignored  the  remark.  His  profes- 
sional interest  was  beginning  to  be  aroused.  For  the 
first  time  he  felt  convinced  that  some  very  peculiar  and 
bizarre  change  was  dawning  over  the  youth  he  knew  so 
well.  He  wanted  to  watch  it  grow  or  fade,  to  analyze 
it,  to  study  it,  to  be  aware  of  its  exact  nature.  But  he 
did  not  want  to  put  either  Valentine  or  Julian  upon  the 
alert.     So  he  spoke  lightly  as  he  said: 

"  But  I  shall  soon  get  the  better  of  my  fatigue,  even 
without  the  usual  medicine.  Cresswell,  take  my  advice, 
give  your  music  a  rest.  Lock  your  piano  again  for  a 
while.     It  will  be  better. " 

Valentine  shut  down  the  lid  on  the  instant,  and  turned 
the  little  key  in  the  lock. 

"  Adieu  to  my  companion  of  many  lonely  hours!  "  he 


VALENTINE    SINGS  231 

said  with  a  half  whimsical  pensiveness.  Then,  as  if  in 
joke,  he  held  out  his  hand  with  the  key  in  it,  to  the  doctor. 

"Will  you  take  charge  of  this  hostage?  "  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  the  doctor  replied. 

Quite  gravely  he  took  the  key  and  put  it  into  his  pocket. 

And  so  it  was  that  silence  fell  round  the  Saint  of  Vic- 
toria Street. 


CHAPTER   III 

THE   FLIGHT  OF  THE   BATS 

Julian  had  resolved  to  keep  his  compact  with  the  lady 
of  the  feathers.  He  had  learned  partially  to  understand 
the  curious  and  beautiful  attitude  which  her  mind  had 
assumed  towards  him,  polluted  as  it  must  be  by  the  ter- 
ror and  working  out  of  her  fate,  by  many  dreary  actions, 
and  by  many  vile  imaginings.  But  although  he  held  to 
his  promise  he  did  not,  after  that  night  of  crisis,  resume 
his  former  career  of  asceticism  tempered  by  winds  of 
temptation  which  could  never  blow  his  casement  open. 
There  are  men  who  can  vary  the  fine  monotony  of  virtue 
by  an  occasional  deliberate  error,  and  who  return  from 
such  an  excursion  into  dangerous  by-paths  drilled  and 
comforted,  as  it  appears,  for  further  journeying  along 
the  main  road  of  their  respectability.  But  Julian  was 
not  such  a  man.  He  resembled  rather  the  morphia  vic- 
tim, or  the  inebriate,  who  must  at  all  hazards  abstain 
from  any  indulgence,  even  the  smallest,  in  drug  or 
draught,  lest  the  demon  who  has  such  charm  for  him 
clasp  him  in  imperturbable  arms,  and  refuse  with  the 
steadfastness  of  a  once-tricked  Venus  ever  to  let  him  go 
again. 

Valentine's  empire  of  five  years  was  broken  in  one 
night. 

At  first  Julian  was  scarcely  conscious  that  his  descent 
was  not  momentary,  but  rather  tending  to  the  perma- 
nent. Certainly,  at  the  first,  he  was  inclined  to  have  the 
schoolboy  outlook  upon  it,  and  the  schoolboy  outlook  is 
as  a  glance  through  the  wrong  end  of  a  telescope,  dwin- 
dling giant  sins  to  the  stature  of  pigmies,  and  pigmy  sins 
to  mere  ooints  of  darkness  which  equal  nothingness. 
But,  strangely  enough,  it  was  his  interview  with  the 
weeping  Cuckoo,  that  Magdalen  of  the  streets,  which 

232 


THE    FLIGHT   OF   THE    BATS  233 

drove  the  schoolboy  to  limbo,  and  set  virtue  and  vice  for 
the  moment  rightly  on  the  throne  and  in  the  gutter. 
Despite  his  comparatively  dull  mood  and  tendency  to  a 
calm  of  self-satisfaction  in  the  Marylebone  Road,  Julian 
could  not  be  wholly  unmoved  by  the  passion  of  Cuckoo's 
regret,  nor  entirely  unaware  that  it  was  a  passion  in 
which  he  must  have  some  share,  whether  now  or  at  some 
more  distant  time,  when  the  thrall  of  recently  moved 
senses  was  weakened,  and  the  numbness  really  born  of 
excitement  melted  in  the  quiet  expansion  of  a  manly  and 
a  reasonable  calm.  His  understanding  of  her  passion, 
none  too  definite  at  first,  gave  him  a  moment's  wonder, 
both  at  her  and  at  himself.  It  seemed  strange  that  the 
shattered  influence  of  Valentine  should  be  of  less  account 
to  him  who  had  known  and  loved  it  than  to  her  who  had 
never  known  it.  It  seemed  stranger  still  that  the  streets 
—  those  wolves  which  tear  one  by  one  the  rags  of  good 
from  human  nature,  till  it  stands  naked  and  tearless 
beneath  the  lamps,  which  are  the  eyes  of  the  wolves  — 
stranger  that  those  streets  should  have  left  to  one  of 
their  children  a  veil  so  bridal  and  so  beautiful  as  that 
which  hung  round  Cuckoo  when  she  wept.  Julian  was 
almost  driven  to  believe  that  sin  and  purity  can  dwell 
together  in  one  woman,  yet  never  have  intercourse.  Yet 
he  knew  that  to  be  impossible.  The  fact  remained  that 
the  tarnished  Cuckoo,  in  the  first  moments  of  regret, 
was  more  conscious  of  his  sin  for  him  than  he  was  con- 
scious of  it  for  himself;  that  she  led  him,  with  her  dingy 
hands,  to  such  repentance  as  he  experienced,  and  that 
she,  too,  guarded  him  against  repetition  of  the  sin,  so 
far  as  she  was  concerned.  Julian  considered  these  cir- 
cumstances; and  there  was  a  time  when  they  were  not 
without  effect  upon  him,  and  when,  with  the  assistance 
of  a  word  from  Valentine,  they  might  have  worked  upon 
him  an  easy  salvation.  But  Valentine  did  not  speak 
that  word.  His  peculiar  purity  had  saved  Julian  in  the 
past  by  its  mere  existence.  Its  presence  was  enough. 
That  satis  was  dead  now.  Julian  did  not  ask  why.  Nor 
did  he  find  himself  troubled  by  its  decease.  There  is 
nothing  like  action  for  making  man  unobservant.  Julian 
was  no  longer  a  ship  in  dock,  nor  even  a  ship  riding  at 


234  FLAMES 

anchor.  The  anchor  was  up,  the  sails  were  set,  the 
water  ran  back  from  the  vessel's  prow. 

Cuckoo  was  not  conscious  of  this.  Sometimes  she 
was  subtle  by  intuition ;  often  she  was  not  subtle  at  all. 
When  she  understood  Julian's  nature  for  the  moment,  it 
was  because  his  nature  was,  for  the  moment,  in  close  re- 
lation to  hers.  Her  fate  was  affected  by  it,  or  its  pass- 
ages of  arms  clashed  near  her  heart.  Then  intuition, 
woman's  guardian,  had  eyes  and  ears,  saw  and  heard 
with  a  distinctness  that  was  nearly  brilliant.  But  when 
Julian's  nature  wandered,  and  the  wanderings  did  not 
bring  it  where  hers  was  dwelling,  her  observation  slept 
soundly  enough.  So  she  was  not  conscious  at  first  of 
Julian's  gentle  progress  in  a  new  direction.  Whether 
Valentine  was  conscious  of  it  did  not  immediately  ap- 
pear, for  Julian  said  nothing.  For  five  years  he  had  not 
had  a  secret  from  Valentine.  Now  he  had  to  have  one. 
He  ranked  Valentine  with  Doctor  Levillier  as  too  good 
to  be  told  of  the  evil  thing.  When  he  had  had  tempta- 
tions and  resisted  them  he  had  told  Valentine  of  them 
frankly.  Now  he  had  temptations,  and  was  beginning 
not  to  resist  them;  he  kept  silence  about  them.  This 
silence  lasted  for  a  little  while,  and  then  Valentine  swept 
it  away,  involuntarily  it  seemed,  and  by  means  of  action, 
not  of  words. 

One  day  Julian  met  a  man  at  his  club,  a  lively,  devil- 
may-care  soldier  of  fortune  in  the  world.  The  man  came 
to  where  he  was  sitting  and  said : 

"So,  Addison,  your  god  has  fallen  from  his  pedestal. 
He  's  only  a  Dagon  after  all. " 

Julian  looked  at  him  ignorantly. 

*'  What  god?  "  he  asked. 

*'  Your  saint  has  tumbled  from  his  perch.  I  never  be- 
lieved in  him." 

He  was  of  the  species  that  never  believes  in  anything 
except  vice  and  the  Sporting  Times. 

Julian  rejoined: 

"  I  do  n't  understand  you." 

*' Cresswell,"  said  the  man. 

Julian  began  to  wonder  what  was  coming,  and  silently 


THE    FLIGHT   OF   THE    BATS  235 

got  ready  for  the  defence,  as  he  always  did  instincti'yely 
when  Valentine  was  the  subject  of  attack, 

"What  have  you  got  to  say  about  Cresswell?  "  he 
asked  curtly. 

"My  dear  chap,  now  don't  you  get  your  frills  out. 
Nothing  that  I  should  mind  being  said  about  me,  I  as- 
sure you.  Only  Cresswell  will  soon  lose  his  nickname  if 
he  goes  on  as  he  's  going  now." 

"  I  'm  in  the  dark." 

"  That  's  what  he  likes  being,  if  what  they  say  is  true. 
Quite  a  night-bird,  I  'm  told." 

"You  'd  better  be  more  explicit." 

But  the  man  glanced  at  Julian's  face  and  seemed  to 
think  better  of  it.      He  moved  off  muttering: 

"  Damned  rot,  minding  a  little  chaff.  And  when 
we  're  all  in  the  same  boat  too." 

Julian  sat  pondering  over  his  veiled  remarks.  They 
surprised  him,  but  at  first  he  was  inclined  to  consider 
them  as  meaningless  and  unfounded  as  so  much  of  the 
gossip  of  the  clubs.  Men  like  Valentine  must  always  be  a 
target  for  the  arrows  of  the  cynical.  Julian  had  heard  his 
sanctity  laughed  at  in  billiard-rooms  and  in  bars  many 
times,  and  had  simply  felt  an  easy  contempt  for  the 
laughers,  who  could  not  undei'stand  that  any  nature 
could  be  finer  than  their  own.  But  to-day  his  own  faint 
change  of  life  —  as  yet  in  its  gentle  beginnings  —  led  him 
presently  to  wonder,  literally  for  the  first  time,  whether 
there  was  a  side  of  Valentine's  lite  that  was  not  merely 
a  side  of  feeling,  but  of  action,  and  that  he  knew  noth- 
ing of.  If  it  were  so,  Julian  felt  an  inward  conviction 
that  the  very  nearest  weeks  of  the  past  had  seen  its  birth. 
He  remembered  once  more  Valentine's  idle  remark 
about  his  weariness  of  goodness,  and  wondered  whether 
—  in  violation  of  his  nature,  in  violent  revolt  against  his 
own  nobility  —  he  was  living  at  last  that  commonplace, 
theatrical  puppet-play  of  the  world,  a  double  life. 

Valentine  a  night-bird!     What  did  that  mean? 

And  then  Julian  thought  of  the  great  wheeling  army  of 
the  bats,  whose  evolutions  every  night  of  creation  wit- 
nesses. In  the  day  they  do  not  sleep,  but  they  are  hidden. 
Their  wings  are  folded  so  closely  as  to    be  invisible. 


236  FLAMES 

Nobody  could  tell  that  they  ever  flew  through  shadowy 
places,  seeking  that  which  never  satiates,  although  it  may 
transform,  the  appetite.  Nobody  could  tell  how  the  twi- 
light affects  them  when  it  comes ;  how,  in  their  obscurity, 
they  have  to  keep  a  guard  lest  the  involuntary  fluttering 
of  a  half-spread  pinion  betray  them.  And  then  when 
the  twilight,  the  blessed  one  of  the  twin  twilights,  one 
in  course  towards  day,  one  in  course  towards  night, 
has  deepened  and  has  died,  they  can  dare  to  be  them- 
selves, to  spread  their  short  wings,  and  to  flutter  on 
their  vagrant  and  monotonous  courses.  It  is  a  great 
though  secret  army — the  army  of  the  bats.  It  scours 
through  cities.  No  weather  will  keep  it  quite  restful  in 
camp.  No  darkness  will  blind  it  into  immobility.  The 
mainspring  of  sin  beats  in  it  as  drums  beat  in  a  Soudan- 
ese fantasia,  as  blood  beats  in  a  heart.  The  air  of  night 
is  black)  with  the  movement  of  the  bats.  They  fly  so 
thickly  round  some  lives  that  those  lives  can  never  see 
the  sky,  never  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  stars,  never  hear 
the  wings  of  the  angels,  but  always  and  ever  the  wings 
of  the  bats.  Nor  can  such  lives  hear  the  whisper  of 
Nature  and  of  the  sirens  who  walk  purely  with  Nature. 
The  murmur  of  the  bats  drowns  all  other  sounds,  and 
makes  a  hoarse  and  monotonous  music.  And  the  eyes 
of  the  bats  are  hungry,  and  the  breath  of  the  bats  is 
poisonous,  and  the  flight  of  the  bats  is  a  charade  of  the 
tragedy  of  the  flight  of  the  devils  in  hell. 

How  could  Valentine  be  one  of  the  bats?  It  seemed 
to  Julian  that  if  Valentine  tried  to  join  them  they  would 
fall  upon  him,  as  certain  birds  will  fall  upon  one  who  is 
not  of  their  tribe,  and  kill  him.     And  yet? 

Yet  Julian  began  to  know  that  he  had  been  aware  of 
a  change  in  Valentine.  He  had  believed  it  to  be 
momentary.  Perhaps  it  was  not  momentary.  Perhaps 
Valentine  was  concealing  his  new  mode  of  life  from 
some  strange  idea  of  chivalry  towards  Julian.  As  Julian 
pondered  he  grew  excited.  He  began  to  long  to  tell 
Valentine  now  what  he  had  not  liked  to  tell  him  before. 
Suddenly  he  got  up  and  hastened  out  of  the  club.  He 
drove  to  Victoria  Street.  But  Valentine  was  not  at 
home. 


THE    FLIGHT   OF   THE   BATS  237 

**I    suppose    Mr.   Cresswell    goes    out    every    night 
Wade?  "  he  asked  the  man,  after  a  moment  of  hesitation. 

Wade  looked  very  much  astonished  at  such  a  ques- 
tion coming  from  Julian. 

"Yes,  sir.     At  least,  most  nights,"  Wade  answered. 

*'  I  see,"  Julian  said. 

He  stood  a  minute  longer.  Then  he  turned  away, 
after  an  abrupt : 

"  Say  I  called,  will  you?" 

Wade  looked  after  him  as  he  went  down  the  stairs, 
with  the  raised  eyebrows  of  the  confidential  butler. 

That  night  was  warm  and  gentle,  with  a  full  moon 
riding  in  clear  heavens.  The  season  was  growing 
towards  its  full  height,  and  the  streets  were  thronged 
with  carriages  till  a  late  hour.  There  is  one  long  pave- 
ment that  is  generally  trodden  by  many  feet  at  every 
time  of  the  year,  and  in  almost  every  hour  of  the  wheel- 
ing twenty-four.  It  is  the  pavement  on  which  the 
legend  of  London's  disgrace  is  written  in  bold  characters 
of  defiance.  Men  from  distant  lands,  having  made  the 
pilgrimage  to  our  Mecca,  the  queen,  by  right  of  magni- 
tude at  least,  of  the  world's  cities,  stare  aghast  upon 
the  legend,  almost  as  Belshazzar  stared  upon  the  writing 
on  the  wall.  Colonists  seeking  for  the  first  time  the 
comfortable  embrace  of  that  mother  country  which  has 
been  the  fable  of  their  childhood  and  the  dream  of  their 
laborious  years  of  maturity,  gaze  with  withering  hearts 
at  this  cancer  in  her  bosom.  Pure  women  turn  their 
eyes  from  it.  Children  seek  it  that  they  may  learn  in 
one  sharp  moment  the  knowledge  of  good  and  evil.  The 
music  of  the  feet  on  that  pavement  has  called  women  to 
despair  and  men  to  destruction ;  has  sung  in  the  ears  of 
innocence  till  they  grew  deaf  to  virtue,  and  murmured 
round  the  heart  of  love  till  it  became  the  heart  of  lust. 
And  that  pavement  is  the  camping-ground  of  the  army 
of  the  bats.  On  wet  nights  they  flit  drearily  through  the 
rain.  In  winter  they  glide  like  shadows  among  the  re- 
vealing snows.  But  in  the  time  of  flowers  and  of  soft 
airs,  when  the  moon  at  the  full  swims  calmly  above  the 
towers  of  Westminster,  and  the  Thames  rests  rocked  in 
a  silver  dream  among  the  ebony  wharves  and  barges,  the 


238  FLAMES 

flight  of  the  bats  is  gay  and  their  number  is  legion. 
And  their  circle  is  joined  by  many  who  are  but  recruits, 
or  as  camp-followers,  treading  in  the  track  of  those 
whose  names  are  on  the  roll-call. 

The  lady  of  the  feathers  rarely  failed  to  join  the 
evening  flight  of  the  bats.  Her  acquaintance  with 
Julian,  even  her  curious  passion  for  his  respect  and  dis- 
tant treatment,  had  not  won  her  to  different  evenings,  or 
to  a  new  mode  of  life.  But  her  feeling  for  Julian  led  her 
to  ignore  now  the  fact  of  this  fate  of  hers.  She  chose 
to  set  him  aside  from  it,  to  keep  him  for  a  friend,  as  an 
innocent  peasant-girl  might  keep  some  recluse  wander- 
ing after  peace  into  her  solitude.  Julian  was  to  be  the 
one  man  who  looked  on  her  with  quiet,  habitual  eyes, 
who  touched  her  with  calm,  gentle  hand,  who  spoke  to 
her  with  the  voice  of  friendship,  demanding  nothing, 
and  thought  of  her  with  a  feeling  that  was  neither  greed 
nor  contempt.  And  that  one  fatal  night  in  which 
Cuckoo's  private  and  secluded  heart  was  so  bitterly 
wounded  she  put  out  of  her  recollection  with  a  strength 
of  determination  soldier-like  and  almost  fierce.  It  lay 
in  the  past,  but  she  did  not  treat  the  past  as  a  woman 
treats  a  drawer  full  of  old,  used  things,  opening  it  in 
quiet  moments  and  turning  over  its  contents  with  a  lin- 
gering and  a  loving  hand.  She  shut  it,  locked  it  almost 
angrily,  and  never,  never  looked  into  it.  Julian  was  to 
be  her  friend  of  leisure,  never  associated  in  any  way  with 
her  tragic  hours.  All  other  men  were  the  same,  stamped 
with  a  similar  hall-mark.  He  only  was  unstamped  and 
was  beautiful. 

On  this  evening  of  summer,  Cuckoo,  as  usual,  joined 
the  flight  of  the  bats  with  a  tired  wing.  The  heat  tried 
her.  Her  cheeks  were  white  as  ivory  under  their  cloud 
of  rouge.  Her  mouth  was  more  plaintive  even  than 
usual,  and  her  heart  felt  dull  and  heavy.  As  she  got  out 
of  the  omnibus  at  the  Circus  one  of  her  ankles  turned, 
and  she  gave  an  awkward  jump  that  set  all  the  feathers 
on  her  hat  in  commotion,  and  made  the  newspaper  boys 
laugh  at  her  scornfully.  They  knew  her  by  sight,  and 
joked  her  every  evening  when  she  arrived.  At  first  —  that 
was  a  long  while  ago — she  had  resented  their  remarks,  still 


THE    FLIGHT   OF   THE    BATS  239 

more  their  shrewd  unboyish  questions,  and  had  answered 
them  with  angry  bitterness.  But  —  well,  that  was  a  long 
while  ago.  Now  she  simply  recovered  her  footing, 
paused  a  moment  on  the  kerbstone  to  arrange  her  dress, 
and  then  drifted  away  into  the  crowd  slowly,  without 
even  glancing  at  her  nightly  critics,  who  were  aware  of 
a  new  bow  on  her  gown,  recognized  with  imperturbable 
sang-froid  the  change  in  a  trimming  or  the  alteration  of 
a  waist-belt. 

Slowly  she  walked  along.  Piccadilly  bats  fly  slowly. 
The  moon  went  up.  She  had  not  met  her  fate.  In  the 
throng  she  saw  Valentine  pass.  He  looked  at  her  with 
a  smile.  She  turned  her  eyes  hastily  away.  She  had 
met  him  on  several  evenings  of  late,  but  had  never  told 
Julian  so,  for  she  began  to  understand  now  his  reverence 
for  Valentine,  and  a  new-born,  ladylike  instinct  taught 
her  not  to  hurt  that  reverence.  Valentine  disappeared. 
He  had  not  tried  to  speak  with  her.  Once,  on  encoun- 
tering her,  he  had  paused,  but  Cuckoo  glided  behind  two 
large  Frenchwomen  and  escaped  with  the  adroitness  of  a 
snake  in  the  grass.  Apparently  he  recognized  her 
movement  as  one  of  retreat,  and  was  resolved  to  leave 
her  alone,  for  he  had  never  followed  her  since  that  day, 
although  he  always  lifted  his  hat  when  he  saw  her.  The 
crowd  grew  thicker.  It  was  very  heterogeneous,  but 
Cuckoo  did  not  thread  it  with  the  attention  of  a  psy- 
chologist, or  examine  it  with  the  pains  of  a  philosopher 
of  the  dark  hours.  She  stared  listlessly  at  the  faces  of 
the  men,  and  if  they  stared  back  at  her,  smiled  me- 
chanically with  a  thin  and  stereotyped  coquetry,  moving 
on  vacantly  the  while  in  a  sort  of  dream,  such  as  a  tired 
journalist  may  fall  into  as  he  drives  his  pen  over  the 
paper,  leaving  a  train  of  familiar  words  and  phrases  be- 
hind it.  There  are  many  dreamers  like  Cuckoo  on  the 
thin  riband  of  that  pavement,  moving  in  a  maze  created 
by  everlasting  custom,  beneath  their  flowers,  half  sense- 
less to  life,  and  yet  alive  to  the  least  human  nonce, 
behind  the  stretched  barriers  of  their  veils.  She  walked 
from  the  Circus  to  Hyde  Park  corner  and  back  again; 
then  turned,  with  an  ever-growing  lassitude,  to  repeat 
the  desolate  experience.     By  this  time  the  playhouses 


240  FLAMES 

had  vomited  their  patrons  into  the  night,  and  locomotion 
was  becoming  more  difficult.  Sometimes  there  was  a 
block,  and  Cuckoo  found  herself  "hung  up,"  as  she 
called  it,  squashed  in  a  mass  of  people,  all  intent  on 
some  scheme  of  their  own,  and  resentful  of  the  enforced 
interruption  to  their  movement.  Then,  by  some  un- 
known and  mysterious  means,  the  human  knot  was 
untied,  and  all  the  atoms  murmured  on  again  through 
the  ocean  of  the  town.  And  still  Cuckoo  was  alone,  and 
still  the  mechanical  smile  came  and  went  upori  her  lips, 
and  her  feet  seemed  to  grow  heavier  and  heavier,  till 
they  were  as  cannon-balls  to  be  lifted  and  dragged  by 
her  protesting  muscles.  And  still  her  senses  seem  to 
become  more  and  more  drugged  by  the  familiarity  of  it 
all,  the  familiarity  of  smile,  of  tired  limbs,  of  incessant 
slow  motion,  of  staring  faces  and  watchful  eyes;  the 
familiarity  of  the  cabs  rolling  home  towards  Knights- 
bridge  and  farther  Kensington,  with  a  dull,  harsh  noise; 
the  familiarity  of  personal,  intense  loneliness  and  long- 
ing for  quiet;  the  familiarity  of  the  knowledge  that  quiet 
could  only  be  earned  by  failure,  and  that  failure  meant 
lack  of  food,  debt,  and  deeper  degradation. 

At  last  —  perhaps  it  was  owing  to  the  unusual  heat  of 
the  night — Cuckoo  became  so  over-fatigued  that  she 
was  scarcely  conscious  what  she  was  doing.  Her  smile 
was  utterly  devoid  of  meaning,  and  had  she  been  sud- 
denly asked,  she  could  not  have  told  whether  she  was  at 
the  Regent  Street  end  of  Piccadilly,  at  Hyde  Park 
Corner,  or  midway  between  the  two.  Once  more  there 
was  a  block.  The  people  were  pressed,  or  surged  of 
their  own  will,  together,  and  Cuckoo  found  herself  lean- 
ing against  some  stranger.  This  sudden  support  gave 
to  her  an  equally  sudden  knowledge  of  the  extent  to 
which  she  was  fatigued,  and  when  the  block  ceased  and 
the  stranger  —  unconscious  that  he  was  being  used  as  a 
species  of  pillow  —  moved  away.  Cuckoo  almost  fell  to 
the  ground.  Stretching  out  her  hands  to  save  herself, 
she  caught  hold  of  a  man's  arm,  and  as  she  did  so  her 
eyes  moved  to  his  face.  It  was  Julian,  and,  before  her 
grasp  had  time  to  fix  all  his  attention  on  her.  Cuckoo 
saw  why  he  was  in  Piccadilly.     In  an  instant  all  her  las- 


THE    FLIGHT   OF   THE   BATS  241 

situde  was  gone ;  all  the  fatigue,  so  passionless  and 
complete,  vanished.  An  extraordinary  warmth,  that  of 
fire,  not  of  summer,  swept  into  her  heart.  She  stood 
still  and  trembled,  as  if  from  the  accession  of  the  abrupt 
strength  that  flows  from  an  energy  purely  nervous, 

"  Hulloh,  Cuckoo!  "  Julian  said. 

She  nodded  at  him.  He  looked  down  at  her,  not 
quite  knowing  what  to  say,  for  he  knew,  by  this  time, 
that  she  objected  to  any  hint  from  him  on  the  subject 
of  her  proceedings  of  the  night.  That  was  ignored  be- 
tween them,  and  when  they  met  the  situation  was  that 
of  a  lodger  in  the  Marylebone  Road  holding  friendly  in- 
tercourse with  a  dweller  in  Mayfair,  nothing  more  and 
nothing  less. 

"  Taking  a  stroll?  "  Julian  said  at  last.  "  Is  n't  it  a 
lovely  night? " 

"Yes.     I  say,  I'm  tired,"  she  answered. 

"  Shall  I  take  you  somewhere? "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  do,"  she  said. 

They  moved  towards  the  Circus. 

"  Where  shall  we  go? "  Julian  said.  **  Have  you  any 
pet  place? " 

*'  I  do  n't  know — oh,  the  Monico,"  she  replied. 

The  restaurant  was  right  in  front  of  them.  They 
dodged  across  to  the  island,  thence  to  the  opposite  pave- 
ment, and  passed  in  silently.  The  outer  hall  was 
thronged  with  people.  So  was  the  long  inner  room,  and 
for  a  moment  they  stood  in  the  doorway  looking  for  a 
table.  At  length  Julian  caught  sight  of  an  empty  one 
far  down  under  the  clock  at  the  end.  They  made  their 
way  to  it  and  sat  down. 

**  What  will  you  have? "  Julian  asked  Cuckoo. 

She  considered,  sinking  back  on  the  plush  settee. 

"  A  glass  of  stout,  I  think,  and — " 

"And  a  bun,"  he  interposed,  smiling  in  recollection 
of  their  first  interview. 

But  Cuckoo  did  not  smile  or  seem  to  recognize  the 
allusion. 

"  Please,  I  '11  have  a  sandwich,"  she  said. 

Julian  ordered  it,  the  stout,  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a 
liqueur  brandy  for  himself.     While  the  waiter  was  getting 


242  FLAMES 

the  things  he  noticed  Cuckoo's  extreme  and  active  grav- 
ity, a  gravity  which  seemed  oddly  to  give  her  quite  a  formi- 
dable appearance  under  her  feathers.  Despite  the  obvious 
weariness  written  on  her  face,  there  was  somehow  a  look 
of  energy  about  her,  the  aspect  of  a  person  full  of  inten- 
tion and  purpose. 

*' Why,  Cuckoo,"  he  said,  "you  look  like  a  young 
judge  about  to  deliver  a  sentence  on  somebody." 

And  indeed  that  was  just  how  her  expression  and 
pose  behind  the  marble-topped  table  affected  him.  Just 
then  the  waiter  brought  the  stout  and  the  other  things. 
Cuckoo  removed  her  cheap  kid  gloves,  took  the  tumbler 
in  her  thin  fingers  and  sipped  at  it.  After  a  sip  or  two 
she  put  the  glass  down,  and  said  to  Julian: 

*'I  say." 

"Well?" 

"  What  are  you  about  to-night?  " 

The  question  came  from  her  painted  lips  very  sternly. 
It  seemed  addressed  by  one  who  had  a  right  to  con- 
demn, and  who  was  going  to  exercise  that  right.  Julian 
was  astonished  by  her  tone,  and  had  an  instant's  iriclina- 
tion  to  resent  it.  But  then  he  thought  that  there 
was  nothing  in  the  words  themselves,  and  that  the  odd 
manner  probably  sprang  simply  from  fatigue  or  some 
other  womanish,  undivined  cause.      So  he  answered: 

"Just  taking  a  stroll.  It's  so  fine,"  and  began  to 
drink  his  coffee. 

But  Cuckoo  quickly  showed  that  her  manner  meant 
all  that  it  had  seemed  to  say. 

"  That  ain't  it,"  she  said,  with  emphatic  excitement, 
though  she  spoke  in  a  low  voice  because  of  the  people 
all  round  them.      "  You  know  it  ain't." 

Julian  was  just  lighting  a  cigarette.  The  match  was 
flaming  in  his  hand.  He  let  it  go  out  as  he  looked  at 
her. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked.  "What's  the 
matter?" 

"  What  are  you  doin'?  "  she  retorted.  "  That  's  what 
I  want  to  know.  Not  as  I  need  to  ask,  though,"  she 
added,  bitterly. 

Julian  was  distinctly  taken  aback  by  the  emotion  in 


THE    FLIGHT   OF   THE    BATS  243 

her  manner,  and  the  passion  that  she  tried  to  keep  quiet 
in  her  voice.  He  flushed  rather  red,  a  boyish  trick  which 
he  could  never  quite  get  over. 

"  I  do  n't  know  what  you  're  talking  about,"  he  said, 
lighting  another  match,  and  this  time  making  it  do  its 
office  on  his  cigarette. 

Cuckoo  tossed  her  head  in  a  way  that  was  not  wholly 
free  from  vulgarity,  but  that  was  certainly  wholly  un- 
conscious and  expressive  of  real  feeling. 

"  Oh  yes,  you  do,"  she  rejoined.  Then  after  a  mo- 
ment's silence,  she  added,  with  bitter  emphasis,  and  a 
movement  of  her  hand  in  the  direction  of  the  door: 

"  You  out  in  that  crowd,  and  doing  the  same  as  all  of 
them?" 

As  she  said  the  words  tears  started  under  her  black- 
ened eyelashes.  If  Julian  had  been  taken  aback  before 
she  spoke  the  last  sentence,  he  was  ten  times  more 
astonished  now.  The  whole  situation  struck  him  as  un- 
exampled, and  but  for  something  so  passionate  in  the 
girl's  manner  that  it  overrode  the  natural  feeling  of  the 
moment,  his  sense  of  humour  must  have  moved  him  to  a 
smile.  It  was  strange  indeed  to  sit  at  midnight  under 
the  electric  moons  of  the  Monico,  and  to  be  passionately 
condemned  for  dissipation  by  a  girl  with  a  painted  face, 
dyed  hair,  and  that  terribly  unmistakable  imprint  of  the 
streets.  But  Julian  could  not  smile.  Something  in 
Cuckoo's  demeanour,  something  so  vehement  and  so  un- 
conscious as  to  be  not  far  from  dignity,  impressed  him 
and  took  him  well  beyond  the  gates  of  laughter. 

"Why — but  you  were  out  in  the  crowd  too,"  he  said. 

"  I!  "  she  said  sharply,  and  with  a  touch  of  scathing 
contempt  for  herself,  yet  impatient,  too,  of  any  intro- 
duction of  her  entity  into  the  discussion;  "of  course 
I  've  got  to  be  there.     What 's  that  to  do  with  it?  " 

"Really,  Cuckoo,"  Julian  began,  but  she  interrupted 
him. 

"  I  ain't  you,"  she  said. 

"No,  of  course,  but — " 

"  I  'm  different.  It  's  nothing  to  me  where  I  go  of  a 
night,  or  what  I  do.  But  you  ain't  got  to  be  there. 
You  need  n't  go,  need  you?  " 


244  FLAMES 

"  Nobody  need,"  he  said.     "But — " 

"  Then  what  d'  you  do  it  for?  "  she  reiterated,  still  in 
the  same  tone  of  one  sitting  on  high  in  condemnation, 
and  moved  by  her  own  utterance  to  an  increasing  excite- 
ment. This  time  she  paused  for  a  reply,  and  set  her 
rouged  lips  together  with  the  obvious  intention  of  not 
speaking  until  Julian  had  plainly  put  forward  his  de- 
fence. Strange  to  say,  her  manner  had  impressed  him 
with  a  ridiculous  feeling  that  defence  of  some  kind  was 
actually  necessary.  It  was  a  case  of  one  denizen  of  the 
dock  putting  on  the  black  cap  to  sentence  another. 
Julian  glanced  at  Cuckoo  before  he  made  any  reply  to 
her  last  question.  If  he  had  had  any  intention  of  not 
answering  it  at  all,  of  calmly  disposing,  in  a  word  or 
two,  of  her  right  to  interrogate  him  on  his  proceedings, 
her  fixed  and  passionate  eyes  killed  it  instantly.  He 
moved  his  coffee-cup  round  uneasily  in  the  saucer. 

"Men  do  many  things  they  needn't  do,  as  well  as 
women,"  he  began.  "I  must  have  my  amusements. 
Why  not?" 

At  the  word  "amusements"  she  drew  in  her  breath 
with  a  little  hiss  of  contempt.     Julian  flushed  again. 

"  You  're  the  last  person,"  he  began,  and  then  caught 
himself  up  short.  It  must  be  confessed  that  she  was 
very  aggravating,  and  that  the  position  she  took  up  was 
wholly  untenable.  Having  checked  himself,  he  said 
more  calmly: 

"What  's  the  good  of  talking  about  it?  I  live  as  other 
men  do,  naturally." 

"Are  you  a  beast  too,  then?"  she  asked. 

She  still  kept  her  voice  low,  and  the  sentence  came 
with  all  the  more  effect  on  this  account. 

"I  don't  see  that,"  Julian  exclaimed,  evidently 
stung.  "Women  are  always  ready  to  say  that  about 
men." 

Cuckoo  broke  into  a  laugh.  She  picked  up  her  glass, 
and  drank  all  that  was  in  it.  Putting  it  down  empty, 
she  laughed  again,  with  her  eyes  on  Julian.  That  sound 
of  mirth  chilled  him  utterly. 

"Why  d'  you  laugh?  "  he  said. 

"  I  don't  know — thinkin'  that  you  're   to  be  like  ail 


THE   FLIGHT   OF   THE    BATS  245 

the  rest,  I  suppose,"  she  answered.  "Like  all  them 
brutes  out  there,  and  him  too." 

"  Him,"  said  Julian.      "  Whom  are  you  speaking  of?" 

She  had  not  meant  to  say  those  last  words,  and  tried 
to  get  out  of  an  answer  by  asking  for  something  more  to 
drink. 

"Chartreuse,"  she  said,  with  the  oddest  imaginable 
accent. 

Julian  ordered  it  hastily,  and  then  immediately  re- 
peated his  question. 

"  Never  mind,"  Cuckoo  replied.     "It  do  n't  matter. " 

But  he  was  not  to  be  denied. 

"  D'  you  mean  Valentine?  "  he  asked. 

She  nodded  her  head  slowly.  Although  Julian  had 
half  suspected  that  Valentine  might  be  there  this  confir- 
mation of  his  suspicion  gave  him  a  decided  shock. 

"Oh,  he  was  just  walking  home  from  some  party," 
he  exclaimed. 

"P'raps." 

"I  'm  certain  of  it." 

"  He  do  n't  matter,"  she  said  with  a  hard  accent. 

She  drank  the  chartreuse  very  slowly,  and  seemed  to 
be  reflecting,  and  a  change  came  over  her  face.  It  soft- 
ened as  much  as  a  painted  face  can  soften  under  dyed  hair. 

"  Dearie,"  she  said,  "it  makes  me  sick  to  see  you 
like  the  rest." 

"  I  never  pretended  to  be  anything  different." 

* '  But  you  was  different, ' '  she  asserted.  * '  I  know  you 
was  different." 

How  could  she  have  divined  the  change  in  Julian  that 
one  night  of  the  Empire  had  wrought? 

"  I  say,"  she  went  on,  and  her  voice  was  trembling 
with  eagerness,  "  you  've  got  to  tell  me  somethin'." 

"Well?" 

"  That  night  I — I — it  wasn't  me  made  you  different, 
was  it?" 

And  as  she  spoke  Julian  knew  that  it  was  she.  Per- 
haps a  fleeting  expression  in  his  face — telling  naked  truth 
as  expressions  may,  though  words  belie  them — made 
her  understand,  for  her  cheeks  turned  grey  beneath  the 
paint  on  them. 


246  FLAMES 

"  I  wish  I'd  killed  myself  long  ago,"  she  said  in  a 
whisper. 

"  Hush!  "  he  exclaimed,  cursing  his  tell-tale  features. 
**  I  'm  not  different;  and  if  I  was  you  could  have  nothing 
to  do  with  it." 

She  said  no  more,  but  he  saw  by  her  brooding  ex- 
pression that  she  clung  to  her  intuition,  and  knew  what 
he  denied. 

The  hands  of  the  clock  fixed  on  the  wall  above  their 
heads  pointed  to  the  half-hour  after  midnight.  The  pale 
and  weary  waiters  were  racing  to  and  fro  clearing  the 
tables,  dodging  this  way  and  that  with  trays,  stealing 
along  with  arms  full  of  long-stemmed,  thick  tumblers, 
eager  for  rest.  The  electric  moons  gave  a  sudden  por- 
tentous wink. 

"Time!  "  a  voice  cried. 

People  began  to  get  up  and  move  out,  exchanging 
loud  good-nights.  The  long  room  slowly  assumed  an 
aspect  of  desertion  and  greedy  desolation. 

"  We  must  go,"  Julian  said. 

Cuckoo  woke  out  of  that  reverie,  which  seemed  so 
chilly,  so  terrible  even.  She  glanced  at  Julian,  and  her 
eyes  were  again  full  of  tears.  He  was  standing,  and  he 
bent  down  to  her  with  his  two  hands  resting  upon  the 
marble  of  the  table.  He  bent  down  and  then  suddenly 
stooped  lower,  lower,  almost  glaring  into  her  eyes.  She 
went  back  in  her  seat  a  little,  half  frightened. 

"What  's  it?"  she  murmured. 

But  Julian  only  remained  fixedly  looking  into  her 
eyes.  In  the  pool  of  the  tears  of  them  he  saw  two  tiny 
shadowy  flames,  flickering,  as  he  thought,  but  quite 
clear,  distinct,  unmistakable.  And  there  came  a  thick 
beating  in  his  side.  His  heart  beat  hard.  Each  time 
he  had  seen  the  vision  of  the  flame  he  had  been  instantly 
impressed  with  a  sense  of  strange  mystery,  as  if  at  the 
vision  of  some  holy  thing,  a  flame  upon  a  prayer-blessed 
altar,  a  flame  ascending  from  a  tear-washed  sacrifice. 
And  now  he  saw  this  thing  that  he  fancied  holy  burning 
behind  the  tears  in  Cuckoo's  eyes! 

Cuckoo  got  up. 

"Come  on,"  she  said,  abruptly. 


THE    FLIGHT   OF   THE    BATS  247 

Julian  followed  her  out  of  the  caf6. 

The  dream  of  the  moon  was  with  them  as  they  came 
to  the  entrance,  clear  as  a  quiet  soul,  directly  above 
them  in  a  clear  sky.  Julian  looked  up  at  it,  but  Cuckoo 
looked,  with  eyes  that  were  almost  sullen,  at  the  night 
panorama  of  the  Circus.  They  waited  a  moment  on  the 
step.  Julian  was  lighting  a  cigar,  and  many  other 
voluble  men,  most  of  them  French  or  Italian,  were  doing 
likewise.  Having  lighted  it,  and  given  a  strong  pufif  or 
two,  Julian  said  to  Cuckoo: 

"  Shall  I  drive  you  home?  " 

"I  ain't  going  home  yet,"  she  replied  doggedly. 
"Are  you?" 

He  hesitated. 

"  Are  you,  or  are  n't  you?  "  she  reiterated. 

While  she  spoke,  in  her  voice  that  was  often  a  little 
hoarse,  a  young  voice  with  a  thread  in  it,  he  realized 
that  somehow  she  —  painted  sinner  as  she  was  —  had 
managed  to  make  him  ashamed  of  himself.  Or  was  it 
that  an  awe  had  come  to  his  soul  with  that  strange  flame? 
In  any  case  his  mood  had  risen  from  the  old  night  mood 
of  a  young  man  to  something  higher,  something  that 
could  not  be  satisfied  in  the  sordid  way  of  the  world. 

*'  I  think  I  shall  go  home,"  he  said. 

"Right,"  she  answered,  and  for  the  first  time  there 
was  an  accent  of  pleasure  in  her  voice. 

"But  I  '11  walk  a  little  way  with  you  first,"  he  added. 

Together  they  crossed  the  Circus  and  mingled  with 
the  humming  mob  at  the  corner  of  Regent  Street.  They 
pushed  their  way  towards  Piccadilly  with  difficulty,  for 
numbers  of  people  at  this  hour  do  not  attempt  to  walk, 
but  stand  stock  still,  despite  the  cry  of  the  policeman, 
staring  at  the  passers-by,  or  talking  and  laughing  with 
the  women  who  throng  the  pavement.  Having  elbowed 
their  way  along  as  far  as  the  St.  James  restaurant,  they 
began  to  move  with  a  little  more  ease,  and  could  have 
talked  as  they  went,  but  apparently  neither  of  them  felt 
conversational.  Julian  was  comparing  the  vision  of  the 
moon  with  the  vision  of  the  street,  a  comparison  no  doubt 
often  made  even  by  young  men  in  London  on  still  nights 
of  summer,  suggestive  to  most  people,  perhaps,  of  much 


248  FLAMES 

the  same  thoughts — yet  a  comparison  to  thrill,  as  all  the 
wild  and  eternal  contrasts  of  life  thrill.  And  Julian  was 
thinking,  too,  rather  sombrely  of  himself.  Cuckoo 
walked  on  beside  him,  looking  straight  before  her. 
Quite  unconsciously,  with  the  unconsciousness  of  a 
mechanical  toy,  expressive  at  the  turning  of  a  key  in  its 
interior,  she  had  assumed  her  thin,  invariable,  profes- 
sional smile.  It  came  to  her  face  in  a  flash  when  the  pave- 
ment of  Piccadilly  came  to  her  feet.  She  did  not  know 
it  was  there. 

The  moon  looked  down  on  it,  yet,  if  Julian  had  been 
able  to  see,  perhaps  the  little  flame  still  flickered  in  those 
eyes  which  had  been  full  of  tears.  But  a  little  beyond  St. 
James's  Hall  their  silent  progress  was  arrested,  for  they 
both  saw  Valentine  pass  them  swiftly  in  the  crowd.  He 
saw  them,  too,  but  did  not  attempt  to  speak  to  them. 
With  a  smile  at  Julian  he  walked  on.  Julian  gazed 
after  him,  then  turned  to  Cuckoo. 

"  And  you  saw  him  here  to-night  before  I  met  you?  " 
he  asked. 

"Yes." 

"  How  long  ago?  " 

"  Two  hours,  I  dare  say." 

After  that  Julian  ceased  to  think  of  the  vision  of  the 
moon.  But  presently  he  noticed  that  Cuckoo  was 
walking  more  slowly. 

"You  're  tired?  "  he  said. 

She  nodded. 

"  Have  you  been  out  all  the  evening?  " 

She  nodded  again. 

"  Take  a  cab  and  go  home.     I  '11  pay  the  man." 

"  No;  I  can't  go  yet." 

"Why  not?" 

"I  can't,"  she  repeated,  and  a  mulish  look  of 
obstinacy  came  into  her  face. 

Julian  guessed  the  miserable  reason. 

"Let  me — "  he  began,  and  in  a  moment  his  hand 
would  have  been  in  his  pocket.     She  stopped  him. 

"I  told  you  as  I  never  would,  not  from  you,"  she 
said,  "And  I  wouldn't,  all  the  more  since — since  that 
night." 


THE    FLIGHT    OF   THE    BATS  249 

Then,  after  an  instant,  she  added: 

"  But  you  'd  better  leave  me  to  myself  now." 

And  then  Julian  realized  that  his  presence  and  com- 
pany were  ruining  her  chance.  That  thought  turned 
him  sick  and  dull. 

"  I  can't, "  he  began  almost  desperately. 

She  gave  with  her  hand  a  little  twitch  at  his. 

"I  say,"  she  whispered,  and  she  spoke  to  him  as  if 
to  Jessie  in  the  tiny  flannel-lined  basket,  "Go  bials! 
will  you? " 

"But  you?  "he  said,  and  there  was  something  that 
was  half  a  sob  in  his  voice. 

"  I  can't.     But  you — go  bials." 

And  then,  to  please  her,  he  held  up  his  hand  and 
hailed  a  hansom.  Getting  in  he  gave  the  direction  of 
his  rooms,  loud  enough  for  her  to  hear.  She  stood  at 
the  edge  of  the  pavement  and  nodded  at  him  as  she 
heard  it. 

Then  she  turned  away,  and  Julian  saw  the  feathers  in 
her  big  hat  waving,  as  she  joined  once  more  the  flight  of 
the  bats. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  FLAME  IN  A  WOMAN'S  EYES 

**That  girl  loves  you,"  Valentine  had  said,  when 
Julian  told  him  of  Cuckoo's  strange  fragmentary 
sermon  in  the  Monico,  and  of  its  effect  upon  himself. 

Valentine  spoke  without  any  emotion  or  sympathy, 
and  the  absence  of  feeling  from  his  voice  seemed  almost 
to  bring  a  certain  slight  vexation  into  his  manner.  The 
love  of  Cuckoo,  perhaps  naturally,  was  to  his  fine  nature 
a  thing  of  no  account,  or  even  of  ill  account.  At  least, 
his  look  and  manner  faintly  said  so  to  Julian. 

"But  if  she  loves  me,"  Julian  said,  and  a  certain 
wonder  came  into  his  heart  at  the  thought,  "surely  she 
would  n't  behave  to  me  as  she  does,  turning  me  from  a 
lover  into  a  friend,  and  keeping  me  almost  angrily  in 
the  latter  relation." 

"Perhaps  not,"  Valentine  said  languidly. 

No  doubt  he  understood  what  Julian  did  not  entirely 
understand,  the  subtleties  of  such  a  nature  as  Cuckoo's, 
a  nature  hammered  out  thin  by  cruel  circumstance, 
drilled  till  it  found  the  unspeakable  ordinary  and  the 
loathsome  inevitable,  worn  as  a  stone  by  dropping  water 
till  the  water,  ceasing  to  fall,  must  have  left  a  loneliness 
of  surprise.  Julian  did  not  fully  realize  that  Cuckoo's 
life  might  well  lead  her  to  display  real  affection,  if  she 
possessed  it,  by  ways  the  reverse  of  those  naturally 
sought  and  gloried  in  by  pure  and  protected  women. 
To  give  is  the  act  natural  to  the  love  of  such  women. 
It  is  at  least  their  impulse,  although  restrained  within 
strict  limits,  perhaps,  by  exigencies  of  conscience  or  of 
religion.  But  to  give  is  the  impulse,  giving  being  the 
unusual  act,  the  strange  new  act  in  them.  Cuckoo's 
profession  being  an  ordered  routine  of  giving,  how 
could  she  show  her  love  better  than    by  withholding? 

250 


THE    FLAME   IN   A   WOMAN'S   EYES     251 

To  be  to  Julian  as  she  was  to  all  men  could  prove 
nothing,  either  to  him  or  to  herself.  To  be  to  him  as 
she  was  not  to  any  other  man  whom  she  knew  must 
mean  something,  argue  something.  So,  at  least,  dimly 
and  without  mental  self-consciousness,  her  mind 
reasoned  rather  instinctively,  for  the  lady  of  the 
feathers  was,  above  all  things,  instinctive.  Instead  of 
logic,  ethics,  morals,  the  equipment  of  sage,  philosopher, 
good  women,  she  had  instinct  only.  Instinct  told  her 
the  secret  meaning  of  reticence  in  her  relations  with 
Julian.  When  she  said  good-bye  to  him,  the  hand-shake 
that  passed  between  them  had  become  something 
more  to  her  than  a  kiss.  She  kissed  so  many  whom  she 
hated,  so  many  who  were  dolls  of  vice  to  her,  who  were 
walking  sins,  incarnate  lust  shadows,  scarcely  men.  To 
be  to  Julian  what  another  woman  might  have  been  would 
be  to  seem  to  make  him  as  all  those  dolls  of  horrible 
London.  So  Cuckoo  set  him  apart  by  her  relations 
towards  him,  as  she  had  previously  set  him  apart  in  her 
heart.  She  pushed  the  chair  of  her  beloved  from  the 
heart  where  the  dolls  sat  night  after  night  warming 
their  expressive  hands  at  the  cheap  and  ever-burning  fire. 
She  pushed  it  out  into  a  circle  of  cold  that  was  the  only 
sacred  thing  she  could  supply.  The  world  and  her 
situation  in  it  had  bereft  her  of  the  power  of  even  prov- 
ing the  simplicity  of  love  by  simplicity  of  natural  action. 
She  had  to  find  a  new  way  to  show  an  old  worship.  She 
found  it  in  refusal,  where  others  find  it  in  assent. 

But,  after  all,  she  was  a  woman,  and  perhaps  she 
wished  Julian  to  be  an  anchorite.  That  was  what  Valen- 
tine meant  when,  after  Julian's  account  of  Cuckoo's 
anger  on  finding  him  in  Piccadilly,  he  simply  said: 

"That  girl  loves  you." 

The  sentence  stirred  Julian  to  a  surprise  warmer  than 
seemed  reasonable,  for  he  had  really  known  that  Cuckoo 
had  some  feeling  for  him.  But  he  had  always  at  the 
back  of  his  mind  the  idea,  common  to  so  many,  that  such 
a  girl  as  Cuckoo  could  not  be  capable  of  the  real  love, 
the  love  ascetic,  not  the  love  Bacchanalian.  Love  among 
the  roses  is  easy,  but  not  many  can  welcome  love  among 
the  nettles;  and,  moreover,  Julian,  despite  his  knowledge 


253  FLAMES 

of  the  thorny  paths  along  which  Cuckoo  walked  habitu- 
ally, along  which  all  her  poor  sisterhood  walked  inces- 
santly, had  not  entirely  disabused  himself  of  the  fallacy 
that  a  life  such  as  hers  was,  in  some  vague,  undefined 
and  indefinable  way,  a  life  of  pleasure.  Even  when  we 
know  a  thing  to  be,  we  often  cannot  feel  it  to  be.  Knowl- 
edge in  the  mind  does  not  inevitably  bring  to  the  birth 
sensation  in  the  heart,  or  even  the  mental  apprehension, 
half  reasonable  and  half  emotional,  on  the  base  and 
foundation  of  which  it  is  comparatively  easy  to  ground 
acts  that  indicate  an  understanding. 

From  Valentine's  remark  Julian  understood  him  to 
mean  that  Cuckoo's  anger  was  entirely  caused  by  jeal- 
ousy, not  at  all  by  a  fine  desire  of  protecting  some  one 
stronger  than  herself  from  that  which  she  knew  so  well 
through  her  own  original  weakness.  Yet  that  was  what 
Julian  had  been  led  to  believe,  not  by  any  hint  of 
Cuckoo's,  but  by  something  within  himself. 

"I  don't  see  why  she  should  love  me,"  he  said,  pres- 
ently. 

"You  're  well  off,  Julian,"  Valentine  rejoined. 

Almost  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  Julian  felt  angry 
with  Valentine. 

"You  do  n't  know  her  at  all,"  he  said,  hotly. 

"  I  know  her  class." 

Julian  looked  at  him,  and  his  anger  died,  as  his  mind 
sailed  off  on  a  new  tack. 

"Her  class!  Then  you  must  have  been  studying  it 
lately,  Val.  Not  long  ago  you  could  not  have  studied 
it.     Your  nature  would  not  have  let  you." 

"  That  is  true  enough. " 

"Were  you  studying  it  when  we  met  you  the  other 
night?  " 

"Yes." 

"With  what  result?  "  Julian  asked  with  eager  curiosity. 

"That  I  understand  something  I  never  understood 
before — the  charm  of  sin." 

Julian  was  greatly  surprised  at  this  deliverance  of  his 
friend,  who  uttered  it  in  his  coldly  pure  voice,  looking 
serenely  high-minded  and  even  loftily  intellectual. 

"  You  find  the  charm  of  sin  in  Piccadilly?  " 


THE    FLAME    IN   A   WOMAN'S   EYES     253 

**  I  begin  to  find  it  everywhere,  in  every  place  in 
which  human  beings  gather  together. " 

"  You  no  longer  feel  yourself  aloof  from  the  average 
man,  then?  " 

Valentine  pressed  his  right  hand  slowly  upon  Julian's 
shoulder. 

"  No  longer, "  he  answered  quietly.  "Julian,  you  and 
I  are  emerging  together  from  the  hermitage  in  which 
we  have  dwelt  retired  for  so  long.  I  always  thought  you 
would  emerge  some  day.  I  never  thought  I  should.  But 
so  it  is.  Do  n't  think  that  I  am  standing  still  while  you 
are  travelling.     It  is  not  so." 

The  strength  of  his  hand's  grip  upon  Julian's  shoulder 
seemed  to  indicate  a  violence  of  feeling  which  the  tones 
of  his  voice  did  not  imply.  Julian  listened,  and  then 
said,  in  a  hesitating,  irresolute  manner: 

"Yes,  I  see,  Val;  but  I  say,  where  are  we  travelling? 
or,  at  least,  where  shall  we  travel  if  we  don't  pull  up, 
if  we  keep  on?     That 's  the  thing,  I  suppose." 

As  he  spoke  he  did  not  tell  himself  that  it  was  noth- 
ing less  than  the  disconnected  and  ungrammatical  re- 
marks of  the  lady  of  the  feathers  which  prompted  this 
consideration,  this  prophetic  movement  of  his  mind. 
Yet  so  it  was.  And  when  Valentine  replied  he,  the  saint, 
was  fighting  against  her,  the  sinner,  and  surely  in  the 
cause  of  evil.      For  he  said  lightly: 

"  After  all,  do  human  souls  travel?  I  often  think  they 
are  like  eyes  looking  at  a  whirling  zoetrope.  It  is  the 
zoetrope  that  travels." 

"  You  think  souls  do  n't  go  up  or  down?  " 

"I  think  that  none  of  us  knows  really  much  about 
souls,  and  that,  after  all,  it  is  best  not  to  bother  our- 
selves too  much  about  them." 

"  Marr  thought  a  great  deal  about  them.  I  used  to 
fancy  that  as  some  maniacs  have  been  known  to  murder 
people  in  order  to  tear  out  their  hearts,  he  could  have 
murdered  them  to  tear  out  their  souls." 

Valentine  took  his  hand  from  Julian's  shoulder. 

"  Marr  is  dead  and  forgotten,"  he  said  almost  sternly. 

"I  can't  quite  forget  him,  Val;  and  I  still  feel  as  if 
he  had  had  some  influence  over  both  of  us.     We  have 


354  .FLAMES 

changed  since  those  days  of  the  sittings,  since  that  night 
of  your  trance  and  his  death." 

Julian  was  looking  at  Valentine  in  a  puzzled  way 
while  he  spoke.     Valentine  met  his  eyes  calmly. 

"If  I  have  changed,"  he  said  slowly,  "it  cannot  be 
in  essentials.  Look  at  me.  Is  my  face  altered?  Is  my 
expression  different? " 

"No,  Valentine." 

Julian  said  the  words  with  a  sort  of  return  to  confi- 
dence and  to  greater  happiness.  To  look  into  the  face 
of  his  friend  set  all  his  doubts  at  rest.  No  man  with 
eyes  like  that  could  ever  fall  into  anything  which  was 
really  and  radically  evil.  Valentine  perhaps  was  playing 
with  life  as  a  boy  plays  with  a  dog,  making  life  jump  up  at 
him,  dance  round  him,  just  to  see  the  strength  and  grace 
of  the  creature,  its  possibilities  of  quick  motion,  its 
powers  of  varied  movement.  Where  could  be  the  harm 
of  that?  And  what  Valentine  could  do  safely  he  began 
to  think  he  might  do  safely  too.  He  gave  expression  to 
his  thought  with  his  usual  frankness. 

"  You  mean  you  are  beginning  to  play  with  life?  "  he 
said. 

"  That  is  it  exactly.  I  am  putting  life  through  its 
paces.  After  all,  no  man  is  worth  his  salt  if  he  shuts 
himself  up  from  that  which  is  placed  in  the  world  for 
him  to  see,  to  know,  and  perhaps — but  only  after  he  has 
seen  and  known  it — to  reject.  To  do  that  is  like  living 
in  the  midst  of  a  number  of  people  who  may  be  either 
very  agreeable  or  the  reverse,  and  declining  ever  to  be 
introduced  to  them  on  the  ground  that  they  must  all  be 
horrible  and  certain  to  do  one  an  infinity  of  harm." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  see.  Then  you  think  that  Cuckoo  is 
jealous  of  me? — that  that  was  all  she  meant?  " 

Julian  again  returned  to  the  old  question.  Valentine 
replied: 

"I  feel  sure  of  it.  Women  are  always  governed  by 
their  hearts.  So  much  so  that  my  last  sentence  is  a 
truism,  scarcely  worthy  the  saying.  Besides,  my  dear 
Julian,  what  would  it  matter  if  she  were  not?  What 
could  the  attitude  of  such  a  woman  on  any  subject  under 
the  sun  matter  to  you?" 


THE    FLAME    IN   A   WOMAN'S   EYES     255 

The  words  were  not  spoken  without  intentional  sar- 
casm. They  stung  Julian  a  little,  but  did  not  lead  him, 
from  any  sense  of  false  shame,  to  a  feeble  concealment 
of  his  real  feeling. 

"It  does  seem  absurd,  I  dare  say,"  he  said.  "But 
she  *s — well,  she  's  not  an  ordinary  woman,  Val." 

"  Let  us  hope  not." 

"No;  you  don't  understand.  There's  something 
strong  about  her.  What  she  says  might  really  matter,  I 
think,  to  a  cleverer  man  than  I.  She  knows  men,  and 
then,  Valentine,  there  's  something  else." 

He  stopped.  There  was  a  queer  look  of  mystery  in 
his  face. 

"  Something  else !     What  is  it?    What  can  there  be?  " 

"  I  saw  the  flame  as  if  it  was  burning  in  her  eyes." 

Valentine  made  an  abrupt  movement.  It  might  have 
been  caused  by  surprise,  annoyance,  anger,  or  simply  by 
the  desire  to  fidget  which  overcomes  every  one,  not  par- 
alyzed, at  some  time  or  another.  His  action  knocked 
over  a  chair,  and  he  stooped  to  pick  it  up  and  set  it  in 
its  place  before  he  spoke.     Then  he  said: 

"  The  flame,  you  say!  What  on  earth  is  your  theory 
about  this  extraordinary  flame?  You  seem  to  attach  a 
strange  importance  to  it.  Yet  it  can  only  be  the  fire  of 
a  fancy,  a  jet  from  the  imagination.  Tell  me,  have  you 
any  theory  about  it,  honestly?  and  if  so,  what  is  it?" 

Julian  was  rather  taken  aback  by  this  very  sledge- 
hammer invitation.  Hitherto  the  flame,  and  his  thought 
of  it,  had  seemed  to  have  the  pale  vagueness  and  the 
mystery  of  a  dream.  When  the  flame  appeared,  it  is 
true,  he  was  oppressed  by  a  sense  of  awe;  but  the  awe 
was  indefinite,  blurred,  resisting  analysis,  and  quite  in- 
explicable to  another. 

"I  did  not  say  I  had  any  theory  about  it,"  he  an- 
swered. 

"  But  then,  why  do  you  consider  it  at  all?  And  why 
seem  to  think  that  its  supposed  presence  in  the  eyes  of  a 
woman  makes  that  woman  in  any  way  different  from 
others? " 

"But  I  did  not  say  I  thought  so,"  Julian  said,  rather 
hastily.      "  How  you  jump  to  conclusions  to-day!  " 


256  FLAMES 

**  You  implied  it,  and  you  meant  it.  Now,  did  n't  you? " 

"Perhaps  I  may  have." 

"This  is  all  too  much  forme,"  Valentine  said,  show- 
ing now  a  very  unusual  irritation.  He  even  began  to 
pace  up  and  down  the  room  with  a  slow,  soft  footstep, 
monotonous  and  mechanical  in  its  regularity.  As  he 
was  walking  he  went  on: 

"I  do  really  think,  Julian,  that  it  is  a  mistake  to 
allow  any  fancy  to  get  upon  your  nerves.  You  know 
what  the  doctor  thought  about  this  flame." 

"Yes." 

"And  you  know  what  I  think." 

"Do  I?" 

"Yes,  that  it  is  a  mere  chimera.  But  my  opinion  on 
such  a  subject  has  no  particular  value.  The  doctor  is 
different.  He  is  a  great  specialist.  The  nerves  have 
been  his  constant  study  for  years.  If  this  vision  contin- 
ues to  haunt  you,  you  really  ought  to  put  yourself  defi- 
nitely into  his  hands." 

"  Perhaps  I  will,"  said  Julian. 

He  spoke  rather  seriously  and  meditatively.  Valen- 
tine, possibly  because  he  was  in  the  sort  of  peculiarly 
irritable  frame  of  mind  that  will  sometimes  cause  a  man 
to  dislike  having  his  tendered  advice  taken,  seemed  ad- 
ditionally vexed  by  this  reply,  or  at  any  rate  struck  by  it. 
He  paused  in  his  walk,  and  seemed  for  an  instant  as  if 
he  were  going  to  say  something  sharply  sarcastic.  Then 
suddenly  he  laughed. 

"  After  all,"  he  exclaimed  in  a  calmer  voice,  "  we  are 
taking  an  absurdity  mighty  seriously." 

But  Julian  would  not  agree  to  this  view  of  the  matter. 

"  I  do  n't  know  that  we  are,"  he  said. 

"  You  do  n't  know!  " 

"That  is  an  absurdity.  No,  Valentine,  I  don't;  I 
can't  think  that  it  is.  I  saw  it  in  Cuckoo's  eyes  only 
once,  and  that  was — just —  " 

"Tell  me  just  when  you  saw  it." 

The  words  came  from  Valentine's  Ups  with  a  pres- 
sure, a  hurry  almost  of  anxiety.  He  seemed  curiously 
eager  about  the  history  of  "^this  chimera.  But  Julian, 
eager  too,  and  engrossed  in  thoughts  that  moved  as  yet 


THE    FLAME   IN   A   WOMAN'S   EYES     257 

in  a  maze  full  of  vapors  and  of  mists,  did  not  find  time 
to  notice  it. 

"  I  noticed  it  just  after,  or  when,  she  was  begging  me 
to  go  home." 

"Like  a  good  boy,"  Valentine  hastily  interposed. 
"  Because  her  jealousy  prompted  her  to  hate  the  thought 
of  your  having  any  pleasure  in  which  she  did  not  share. 
Oh,  you  noticed  the  flame  then.  Did  it,  too,  tell  you  to 
go  home?  " 

He  spoke  rather  harshly  and  flippantly,  and  appar- 
ently put  the  question  without  desire  of  an  answer,  and 
rather  with  the  intention  of  ridicule  than  for  any  other 
reason.     But  Julian  took  it  seriously  and  replied  to  it. 

"Somehow  I  felt  as  if,  perhaps,  it  did  wish  to  speak 
some  message  to  me,  and  that  the  message  came,  or 
might  come,  through  her." 

He  spoke  slowly,  for  indeed  it  was  this  action  of 
words  that  wa?  beginning  to  make  clear  to  himself  his 
own  impression,  so  vague  and  so  unpresentable  before. 
As  he  thus  traced  it  out,  like  a  man  following  the  blurred 
letters  of  an  old  inscription  with  the  point  of  his  stick,  and 
gradually  coming  at  their  meaning,  his  excitement  grew. 
He  said,  speaking  with  a  rising  emphasis  of  conviction: 

"I  'm  not  a  mere  fool.  There  is  —  there  is  some- 
thing in  all  this;  I  feel  it;  I  cannot  be  simply  imagining. 
There  is  something.  But  I  'm  like  a  man  in  the  dark.  I 
can't  see  what  it  is;  I  can't  tell.  But  you,  Valentine, 
you,  with  your  nature,  so  much  better  than  I  am,  with  so 
much  deeper  an  insight,  how  is  it  you  do  n't  see  this 
flame?  Unless," —  and  here  Julian  struck  his  hand 
violently  on  the  table,  —  "  unless  it  comes,  as  it  seemed 
to  come  that  night  in  the  darkness,  from  you.  If  it  's 
part  of  yourself  —  but  then  "  —  and  his  manner  clouded 
again  —  "  how  can  that  be?  " 

"  How  indeed?  "  said  Valentine,  who  had  been  watch- 
ing him  all  through  this  outburst  with  a  scrutiny  that 
seemed  almost  uneasy,  so  narrow  and  so  determined 
was  it. 

"Julian,  listen  to  me;  you  trust  me,  do  n't  you,  and 
think  my  opinion  worth  something?  " 

' '  Worth  everything. ' ' 


258  FLAMES 

•'Well,  I  believe  you  're  getting  into  an  unnatural, 
if  you  were  n't  a  man  I  should  say  a  hysterical — habit  of 
mind.  If  you  can't  throw  it  off  by  yourself,  I  must  help 
you  to  do  so." 

*'  Perhaps  you  're  right.    But  how  will  you  help  me?  " 

Valentine  seemed  to  think  and  consider  for  a  moment. 
Then  he  exclaimed: 

'*  I  '11  tell  you.  By  making  you  join  with  me  in  putting 
this  life,  this  old  life  —  new  enough  to  both  of  us  — 
through  its  paces.  Why  should  each  of  us  do  it  alone? 
We  are  friends.  We  can  trust  one  another.  You  know 
me  through  and  through.  You  know  the — chilliness  I  '11 
call  it  —  of  my  nature,  my  natural  bookishness  —  my 
bias  towards  contemning  people  too  readily,  and  avoid- 
ing what  all  men  ought  to  know.  And  I  know  you. 
Without  you  I  believe  I  should  never  go  any  distance. 
Without  me  you  might  go  too  far.  Together  we  will 
strike  the  happy  medium.  For  us  life  Shall  go  through 
all  his  paces,  but  he  shall  never  lame  us  with  a  kick,  like 
a  vicious  horse,  or  give  us  a  furtive  bite  when  we  're  not 
looking.  Men  carry  such  bites  and  kicks,  the  wounds 
from  them,  to  their  graves.  We  *11  be  more  careful.  But 
we  '11  see  the  great  play  in  all  —  all  its  acts.  And,  when 
we  've  seen  it,  we  '11  be  as  we  were,  only  we  '11  be  no 
longer  blind.  And  we  '11  never  forget  our  grand  power 
of  rejecting  and  refusing." 

"Ah!"  said  Julian.  ''Perhaps  I  haven't  that 
power. ' ' 

"But  I  have." 

"Yes,  you  have." 

"  And  I  '11  share  my  power  with  you.  We  are  friends 
and  comrades.     We  ought  to  share  everything." 

"Yes,"  exclaimed  Julian,  carried  away.  "Yes,  by 
Jove,  yes!  " 

"  And  as  to  this  flame — " 

"Ah!" 

"We  '11  soon  know  if  it's  a  vision  or  a  reality.  But 
it 's  a  vision.     You  saw  it  in  a  woman's  eyes." 

"I'll  swear  I  did." 

"Then  that  proves  it's  a  fraud.  The  flame  in  a 
woman's  eyes  never  burnt  true  yet — never,  Julian,  since 
the  days  of  Delilah." 


CHAPTER  V 

JULIAN  FEARS  THE  FLAME 

Although  Cuckoo  knew  well  that  Julian  carried  out  his 
intention  of  going  home  after  he  left  her  in  Piccadilly, 
the  fact  of  his  being  there,  of  his  making  one  of  that 
crowd,  that  slowly-moving  crowd,  troubled  her.  Valen- 
tine and  Julian  had  argued  the  question  of  her  real  feel- 
ing about  the  matter.  Cuckoo  did  not  argue  it.  She 
never  deliberately  thought  to  herself,  "I  feel  this  or 
that.  Why  do  I  feel  it?"  She  knew  as  much  about 
astronomy  as  introspection,  and  that  was  simply  nothing 
at  all.  Instead  of  divihg  into  the  depths  of  her  mind  and 
laboriously  tracing  every  labelled  and  tabulated  subtlety 
to  its  source,  she  sat  in  the  squalid  Marylebone  Road  sit- 
ting-room, with  the  folding  doors  open  into  the  bedroom 
to  temper  the  heat  of  summer  with  draughts  from  the 
frigid  zone  of  the  back  area,  and  babbled  her  sensations 
to  Jessie,  who  riggled  in  response  to  every  passing  shadow 
that  stole  across  the  heart  of  her  mistress. 

Jessie  had  learned  much  about  Julian  in  these  latter 
days.  Into  her  pricked  and  pointed  ear,  leaf-shaped 
and  the  hue  of  India-rubber,  had  been  whispered  a  strange 
tale  of  the  dawning  of  love  in  a  battered  heart,  of  the  blos- 
soming of  respect  in  a  warped  mind.  She  had  heard  of 
the  meeting  in  Piccadilly,  of  the  meal  at  the  Monico,  of 
the  farewell  on  the  kerbstone.  And  she  alone  knew — or 
ought  to  have  known — the  mingling  of  intense  jealousy 
and  of  a  grander  feeling  that  burned  in  Cuckoo's  breast 
whenever  she  thought  of  Julian's  life,  the  greater  part 
of  it  that  lay  beyond  her  knowledge,  her  sight,  or  keep- 
ing. 

For  the  lady  of  the  feathers,  in  most  things  a  strange 
mixture,  had  never  driven  two  more  contrasted  passions 

259 


a6o  FLAMES 

in  double  harness  than  those  which  she  drove  around  the 
circle  of  which  Julian  was  the  core,  the  centre.  One 
was  a  passion  of  jealousy;  the  other  a  curious  passion  of 
protection.  Each  backed  up  the  other,  urged  it  to  its 
work.  It  would  have  been  a  hard  task,  indeed,  to  tell 
at  first  which  was  the  greater  of  the  two.  Cuckoo  neither 
knew  nor  cared.  She  did  not  even  differentiate  the 
two  passions  or  say  to  herself  that  there  were  two.  That 
was  not  her  way.  She  felt  quickly  and  strongly,  and 
she  acted  on  her  feelings  with  the  peculiar  and  almost 
wild  promptitude  that  such  a  life  as  hers  seems  to  breed 
in  woman's  nature.  It  is  the  French  lady  of  the  feathers 
who  scatters  vitriol  in  the  streets  of  Paris,  the  Italian  or 
Spanish  lady  of  the  feathers  who  snatches  the  dagger 
from  her  hair  to  stab  an  enemy.  The  wind  of  Cuckoo's 
feelings  blew  her  about  like  a  dancing  mote,  and  the 
feelings  awakened  by  Julian  were  the  strongest  her 
nature  was  capable  of. 

Only  Jessie  knew  that  at  present,  unless  indeed  Val- 
entine had  divined  it,  as  seemed  possible  from  his  words 
to  Julian. 

And  these  twin  passions  were  fed  full  by  the  peculiar 
circumstances  of  Cuckoo's  relation  to  Julian,  and  by  the 
depth  of  her  knowledge  concerning  a  certain  side  of  life. 

She  went  home,  that  night  of  their  meeting,  very  late, 
and  in  the  weariness  of  the  morning  succeeding  it,  and  of 
many  following  mornings,  she  began  to  brood  over  the 
change  in  Julian  that  she  had  intuitively  divined.  Her 
street-woman's  instinct  could  not  be  at  fault  with  a  boy. 
For  Julian  was  little  more  than  a  boy.  She  knew  that 
when  she  first  met  him,  when  they  made  toast  together 
on  the  foggy  afternoon  that  she  could  never  forget, 
Julian  was  unshadowed  by  the  darkness  that  envelopes 
the  steps  of  so  much  human  nature.  Lively,  bright,  full 
of  youth,  strength,  energy,  as  he  was,  Cuckoo  knew  that 
then  he  had  been  free  from  the  bondage  of  sense  which 
demands  and  obtains  the  sacrifice  of  so  many  lives  like 
hers.  And  she  knew  that  now  he  was  not  free  from  that 
bondage,  and  that  she,  by  an  irony  of  fate,  had,  with 
her  own  hands,  fastened  the  first  fetter  upon  him. 

Valentine  had  plotted  that. 


JULIAN   FEARS   THE   FLAME  261 

Cuckoo's  belief  said  so;  but  surely  her  curious  instinct 
against  Valentine  must  have  tricked  her  here! 

It  was  this  knowledge  of  her  unwilling  action  against 
Julian's  peace  that  first  woke  in  her  the  strong  protec- 
tive feeling  towards  him,  a  feeling  almost  akin  to  the 
maternal  instinct.  It  was  her  strange  love  for  him  that 
prompted  the  fiery  antagonism  against  his  relations  with 
others  that  could  only  be  called  jealousy.  And  though 
one  of  her  passions  was  noble,  the  other  pitiable,  they 
could  but  work  together  for  the  same  end,  aim  at  a 
similar  salvation. 

Yet  how  could  any  salvation  for  a  man  come  out  of 
that  dreary  house  in  the  Marylebone  Road,  from  that 
piteous  rouged  agent  of  the  devil? 

Cuckoo  never  stopped  to  ask  such  a  question  as  that. 
She  was  a  girl,  and  she  began  to  understand  love.  She 
had  no  time  to  stop.  And  each  passing  day  soon  began 
to  give  fresh  vitality  to  the  vision  of  Julian's  need. 

Between  him  and  her  there  had  sprung  up  on  the 
ruins  of  one  night's  folly  a  tower  of  comradeship.  Its 
foundations  were  not  of  sand.  Even  Cuckoo,  despite 
her  ceaseless  jealously,  felt  that.  But,  after  all,  she  had 
only  come  into  his  life  as  a  desolate  waif  drifts  into  a 
settled  community.  She  was  neither  of  his  class,  his 
understanding,  or  his  education.  She  was  in  the  gutter; 
in  the  gutter  to  an  extent  that  no  man,  as  women  feel  at 
present,  can  ever  be.  And  though  through  her  inspira- 
tion he  had  not  to  come  into  the  gutter  to  find  her  and 
to  be  with  her,  yet  she  sometimes  writhed  with  the 
thought  that  he  was  so  far  above  her.  Nevertheless,  her 
position  never  once  tempted  her,  in  the  struggle  that 
the  future  quickly  brought  with  it,  to  shrink  from  effort, 
to  fail  in  fight,  to  despair  in  endeavour  for  him. 

There  are  flames  that  burn  the  dross  from  humanity 
and  reveal  the  gold.  There  are  flames  in  the  eyes  and 
in  the  hearts  of  women. 

Julian's  visits  to  Cuckoo  were  irregular  but  fairly 
frequent.  He  always  came  in  the  afternoon,  an  hour 
or  two  before  the  psychological  moment  of  her  start  out 
for  the  evening's  duty.     Sometimes  he  would  take  her 


262  FLAMES 

out  to  tea  at  a  small  Italian  restaurant  near  Baker  Street 
Station.  More  often  they  would  make  tea  together  in 
the  little  sitting-room,  with  the  ecstatic  assistance  of 
Jessie.  And  Rip,  Valentine's  dog,  generally  made  one 
of  the  party.  He  and  Jessie  got  on  excellently  together, 
and  devoutly  shared  the  scraps  that  fell  from  the  Maryle- 
bone  Road  table.  The  first  time  that  Julian  brought 
Rip  to  number  400,  Cuckoo  fell  in  love  with  him'i 

"  Why,  you  never  said  you  had  a  dog, "  she  exclaimed, 

"  Rip  's  not  mine,"  Julian  answered. 

"Is  n't  he?     Whose  is  he?" 

"Valentine's." 

"Then  why  d*  you  have  him  with  you?"  asked 
Cuckoo,  suddenly  and  rather  roughly  pushing  away  Rip, 
who  was  swirling  in  her  lap  like  a  whirlpool. 

"Oh,  he's  taken  a  stupid  dislike  to  Valentine," 
Julian  answered  thoughtlessly.  "He  won't  stay  with 
him." 

In  a  moment  Cuckoo  had  caught  the  little  dog  back. 

"That  *s  funny,"  she  said. 

"Yes,  is  n't  it?  "  said  Julian. 

Then,  seeing  her  thoughtful  gaze,  and  the  odd  way 
in  which  she  suddenly  caressed  the  dog,  he  was  angry 
with  himself  for  having  told  her  anything  about  the 
matter. 

"  Rip  's  a  little  fool,"  he  said.  "  Perhaps  Jessie  will 
take  a  dislike  to  you  some  day,  Cuckoo." 

"Not  she,  never!"  said  Cuckoo,  with  conviction. 
And,  after  that,  she  could  never  spoil  Rip  enough. 

These  visits  and  teas  ought  to  have  been  pleasant 
functions,  bright  oases  in  the  desert  of  Cuckoo's  life, 
but  a  cloud  fell  over  them  at  the  beginning  and  deepened 
as  the  days  went  by.  For  Cuckoo,  with  her  sharpness 
of  the  ganmi  and  her  quick  instinct  of  the  London 
streets,  was  perpetually  watching  for  and  noting  the  signs 
in  Julian's  face,  manner,  or  language,  that  fed  those  two 
passions  of  jealousy  and  of  protection  within  her.  And, 
at  first,  she  allowed  Julian  to  see  what  she  was  doing. 

One  day,  as  they  sat  at  the  table  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  Julian  said  to  her: 

"  I  say,  Cuckoo,  why  d'  you  look  at  me  like  that?  " 


JULIAN   FEARS   THE    FLAME  263 

"Like  what?" 

"Why  d'  you  stare  at  me?     Anything  wrong?  " 

'*  I  was  n't  staring  at  you,"  she  asserted.  **  The  sun 
gets  in  my  eyes  if  I  look  the  other  way." 

"I  '11  draw  the  blind  down,"  he  said. 

He  got  up  from  the  table  and  shut  the  afternoon  sun 
out.  The  tea-tray,  the  photographs,  the  little  dogs, 
they  two,  were  plunged  in  a  greenish  twilight  manufac- 
tured by  the  sun  with  the  assistance  of  the  Venetian 
blind. 

"There,"  Julian  said,  sitting  down  again,  "now  we 
shall  all  look  ghostly." 

"  But  if  I  do  take  a  fancy  to  look  at  you,  why 
shouldn't  I,  then?"  Cuckoo  asked. 

"I  don't  mind,"  he  laughed.  "But  you  didn't 
seem  pleased  with  me,  I  thought." 

"Rot!" 

"Oh!  you  were  pleased,  then?" 

"  I  do  n't  say  as  I  was,  or  was  n't. " 

"You  're  rather  like  the  Sphinx." 

"  What 's  that?  " 

"  Enigmatic." 

She  did  n't  understand,  and  looked  rather  cross. 

"  I  told  you  I  was  n't  looking  at  you,"  she  exclaimed 
pettishly. 

"Then  you  told  a  lie,"  Julian  said,  with  supreme 
gravity.     "  Think  of  that, Cuckoo." 

"And  what  would  you  ever  tell  me  but  lies  if  I  was 
to  ask  you  things?  "  she  rejoined  quickly. 

Julian  began  to  see  that  there  was  something  lurking 
in  the  background  behind  her  show  of  temper.  He  won- 
dered what  on  earth  it  was. 

"Why  should  I  tell  you  lies?"  he  said. 

"Oh!  to  kid  me.  Men  like  that.  You're  just  like 
the  rest,  I  suppose." 

"  I  suppose  so." 

She  seemed  vexed  at  his  assent,  and  went  on: 

"  Now,  are  n't  you,  though?  " 

"  I  say,  yes." 

"Well,  you  use  n't  to  be,"  she  exclaimed,  with  actual 
bitterness  of  accent  and  of  look.      "That's  just  why  I 


964  FLAMES 

was  lookin*  at  you, — for  I  was  lookin', — makin'  out  the 
difference." 

**I  'm  just  the  same  as  I  was,"  Julian  said,  and  he 
spoke  with  quite  sincere  conviction. 

*'  No,  you  ain't." 

Having  uttered  this  very  direct  contradiction,  Cuckoo 
proceeded  with  great  energy: 

"You  've  been  lettin'  him  do  it.     I  know  you  have." 

Julian  was  completely  puzzled. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked,  with  a  real  desire 
for  information. 

"  You  know  well  enough.     He  's  leadin'  you  wrong. " 

Julian  reddened  with  a  sudden  understanding.  Her 
words  touched  him  in  his  sorest  place.  In  the  first 
place,  no  man  likes  to  think  he  has  been  doing  a  thing 
because  he  has  been  led  by  some  one  else.  In  the 
second,  Julian  had  grown  ardently  to  dislike  Cuckoo's 
unreasoning  antipathy  to  Valentine.  Originally,  and  for 
some  time,  he  had  believed  that  she  would  get  over  it. 
Finding  later  that  there  was  no  chance  of  that,  he  had 
once  told  her  that  he  could  not  hear  Valentine  abused. 
Since  that  day  she  had  been  careful  not  to  mention  his 
name.  But  now  her  bitterness  against  him  peeped  out 
once  more,  and  seemed  even  to  have  been  gathering 
force  during  the  interval. 

"Cuckoo,  you're  talking  great  nonsense,"  he  said, 
forcing  himself  to  speak  quietly. 

But  she  was  in  one  of  her  most  mulish  moods,  and 
was  not  to  be  turned  from  the  subject  or  silenced. 

"No,  I  ain't,"  she  said.  "Where  was  you  last  week? 
You  did  n't  come  in  once." 

"  I  was  in  Paris." 

Cuckoo's  brow  clouded  still  more.  Her  knowledge 
of  Paris  was  not  intimate,  and,  indeed,  was  confined  to 
stories  dropped  from  the  lips  of  men  who  had  been  there 
for  short  periods,  and  for  purposes  the  reverse  of  geo- 
graphical or  artistic.  Julian's  mention  of  the  French 
capital  drove  a  sword  into  her. 

"  With  him?  "  she  exclaimed. 

"Yes,  with  Valentine." 

"  Oh,  what  did  you  do  there?  " 


JULIAN   FEARS   THE    FLAME  265 

She  spoke  with  angry  insistence,  and  Julian  could  not 
help  thinking  of  Valentine's  remark,  '*That  girl  loves 
you."  It  seemed  indeed  that  Cuckoo  must  have  some 
deep  and  wholly  personal  reason  prompting  her  to  this 
strange  demonstration  of  vexation. 

**I  can't  tell  you  everything,"  Julian  answered. 

*'0h,  you  can't  kid  me  over  that.  I  know  well 
enough  what  men  go  to  Paris  for!  "  she  rejoined,  with 
almost  hysterical  bitterness. 

Julian  was  silent.  It  was  curious,  but  this  girl  stirred 
his  conscience  from  its  sleep,  as  once  Valentine  alone 
could  stir  it.  But  by  how  different  a  method!  The 
stillness  and  calm  of  one  who  was  sinless  were  replaced 
by  the  vehemence  and  the  passion  of  one  who  was  steeped 
in  sin.  And  yet  the  two  opposites  had,  to  some  extent, 
the  same  effect.  Julian  did  not  yet  realize  this  thor- 
oughly, and  did  not  analyze  it  at  all.  Had  any  one 
hinted  to  him  that  the  waning  influence  of  Valentine  for 
good  could  ever  be  balanced  by  the  waxing  influence  of 
the  lady  of  the  feathers,  he  would  have  laughed  at  the 
crazy  notion.  And  in  the  first  place  he  would  have 
denied  that  Valentine's  spell  upon  him  had  changed  in 
nature;  for  Valentine  was  still  as  a  god  to  him.  And 
Cuckoo  could  never  be  a  goddess,  either  to  him  or  to 
any  one  else.  But,  though  he  would  scarcely  acknowl- 
edge it  even  to  himself,  he  did  not  care  for  Cuckoo  to 
know  fully  the  changing  way  of  his  life.  Perhaps  it  was 
the  curiously  strong  line  she  had  from  the  first  taken 
with  regard  to  his  actions  that  made  him  careful  with 
her.  Perhaps  it  was  the  incident  of  the  vision  of  the 
flame — but  no;  remembrance  of  that  had  been  well-nigh 
lulled  to  sleep  by  the  lullabies  of  Valentine,  by  his  dis- 
regard of  it,  his  certainty  that  it  was  an  hallucination,  a 
mirage.  Whatever  the  cause  might  be,  Julian  felt  some- 
what like  a  naughty  boy  in  the  angry  presence  of  Cuckoo. 
As  he  looked  at  her  the  greenish  twilight  painted  a  chill 
and  menacing  gleam  in  her  eyes,  and  made  her  twisting 
lips  venomous  and  acrid  to  his  glance.  Her  rouge 
vanished  in  the  twilight,  or  seemed  only  as  a  dull, 
darkish  cloud  upon  her  thin  and  worn  cheeks.  She  sat 
at  the  table  almost  like  a  scarecrow,  giving  the  tables 


366  FLAMES 

of  some  strange  law  to  a  trembling  and   an  unwilling 
votary. 

"  I  know!  "  she  reiterated. 

Julian  said  nothing.  He  did  not  choose  to  deny  what 
was  in  fact  the  truth,  that  his  stay  in  Paris  had  not  been 
free  from  fault,  and  yet  he  did  not  feel  inclined  to  do 
what  most  men  in  his  situation  must  by  all  means  have 
done,  challenge  Cuckoo's  right  to  sit  in  judgment,  or 
even  for  a  moment  to  criticise  any  action  of  his.  There 
was  something  about  her,  a  frankness  perhaps,  which 
made  it  impossible  to  put  her  out  of  court  by  any  allusion 
to  her  own  life.  And  indeed  that  must  have  been 
cowardice  and  an  impossibility.  Besides,  she  put  her- 
self and  her  own  deeds  calmly  away  as  unworthy  and 
impossible  of  discussion,  as  things  sunk  down  beneath 
the  wave  of  notice  or  comment,  remote  from  criticism 
or  condemnation,  because  the  life  of  their  hopelessness 
had  been  so  long  and  sunless. 

Cuckoo,  with  her  eyes  on  Julian,  was  silent,  too,  now. 
She  understood  that  what  her  suspicion  had  affirmed, 
without  actually  knowing,  was  true,  and  her  stormy 
heart  was  swept  by  a  whirlwind  of  jealousy,  and  of 
womanish  pity  for  the  man  she  was  jealous  of.  In  that 
moment  she  felt  a  sickness  of  life  more  sharp  than  she 
had  ever  felt  before,  and  a  dull  longing  to  be  a  different 
woman,  a  woman  of  Julian's  class,  and  clever,  that  she 
might  be  able  to  do  something  to  keep  him  from  sinking 
to  the  level  of  the  men  she  hated. 

How  could  she,  in  her  nakedness  of  permanent 
degradation,  give  a  helping  hand  to  anybody?  That 
was  a  clear  rendering  of  the  vague  thought,  vague  as 
this  twilight  in  which  they  sat,  that  ran  through  her 
mind.  Suddenly  she  turned  to  the  tray  and  poured  her- 
self out  a  cup  of  tea.  The  tea  had  been  standing  while 
they  talked,  and  was  black  and  strong.  She  drank  it 
eagerly,  and  a  wave  of  nervous  energy  rushed  over  her, 
surging  up  to  her  b^ain  like  light  and  electricity.  It 
gave  to  her  a  sort  of  reckless  valour  to  say  just  the  thing 
she  felt.  She  turned  towards  Julian  with  a  manner 
that  was  half  shrew,  half  wildcat — street  girls  cannot 
always  compass  the  impressive,  though  they  may  feel  the 


JULIAN   FEARS   THE    FLAME  267 

great  eternities  nestling  round  their  hearts — and  cried 
out: 

"I  just  hate  you!  " 

All  her  jealousy  rang  in  that  cry,  smothering  the 
whisper  of  the  maternal  passion  that  went  ever  with  it. 
Julian  could  no  longer  doubt  the  truth  of  Valentine's 
words. 

"Cuckoo,  don't  be  silly,"  he  said  hastily,  and  awk- 
wardly enough. 

"Silly!  "  she  burst  out.  "What  do  I  care  for  that? 
I  ain't  silly,  either,  and  I  ain't  blind  like  you  are.  I  can 
see  where  you  're  goin'." 

"I  shall  go  away  from  here,"  Julian  said,  trying  to 
laugh,  "if  you  talk  in  this  ridiculous  way." 

She  sprang  up  and  ran  passionately  in  front  of  the 
door,  as  if  she  thought  he  was  really  going  to  escape. 

"No,  you  don't, "she  said,  and  her  accent  seemed 
to  draw  near  to  that  of  Whitechapel  as  her  voice  rose' 
higher.      "  Not  till  I  've  said  what  I  mean." 

"Hush,  Cuckoo!  We  shall  have  Mrs.  Brigg  up, 
thinking  I  'm  murdering  you." 

"  Let  her  come!  And  you  are,  that 's  what  you  are, 
murderin'  me,  and  worse,  seein'  you  go  where  you  're 
goin'.  He's  takin'  you.  It's  all  him.  Yes,  it  is! 
He  '11  make  you  as  he  is." 

"Cuckoo,  I  won't  have  it." 

Julian  spoke  sternly  and  got  up.  The  little  dogs, 
alarmed  by  the  tumult,  had  begun  to  whine  uneasily, 
and  at  his  movement  Jessie  barked  in  a  thin  voice. 
Julian  went  to  Cuckoo,  took  her  wrists  in  his  two  hands, 
and  drew  her  away  from  the  door;  but  she  tore  herself 
from  his  grasp  with  fury,  for  the  touch  of  his  hands 
gave  a  clearer  vision  to  her  jealousy  of  his  secret  deeds, 
and  made  her  understand  better  the  depth  of  her  pres- 
ent feeling. 

"You  shall  have  it,"  she  cried.  "You  shall.  I 
know  men.  I  know  what  you  '11  be.  I  know  what 
women  '11  make  of  you." 

"A  man  makes  himself,"  Julian  interrupted. 

"Rot!  That's  all  you  know  about  it.  I've  seen 
them  begin  so  nice  and  go  right  down,  like  a  stone  in  a 


268  FLAMES 

well.  And  they  never  come  up  again.  Not  they.  No 
more  '11  you.      D'  you  hear  that?  " 

"  I  shall  hear  you  better  if  you  speak  lower." 

Cuckoo  suddenly  changed  from  a  sort  of  frenzy  to  a 
violent  calm. 

"You  're  different  already,"  she  said.  "Can't  I 
see  it? " 

As  if  to  emphasize  her  remark  she  approached  her 
face  quite  close  to  his  in  the  twilight.  While  they  had 
been  arguing  a  cloud  had  passed  over  the  sun,  and  dim- 
ness increased  in  the  little  room.  Both  of  them  were 
still  standing  up,  and  now  Cuckoo  peered  into  Julian's 
eyes  with  almost  hungry  scrutiny.  Her  lips  were  still 
trembling  with  excitement  and  her  mouth  was  contorted 
into  a  sideways  grin,  expressive  of  contemptuous  knowl- 
edge of  the  descent  of  Julian's  nature.  She  was  a  mere 
mask  of  passion,  no  doubt  a  ridiculous  object  enough, 
touzled,  dishevelled  and  shaken  with  temper,  as  she 
leaned  forward  to  get  a  better  view  of  him.  And  Julian 
was  both  vexed  and  disgusted  by  her  outbreak,  and  sick 
of  a  scene  which,  like  all  men,  he  ardently  hated  and 
would  have  given  much  to  avoid.  He  faced  her  coldly, 
endeavouring  to  calm  her  by  banishing  every  trace  of  ex- 
citement from  his  expression. 

And  then,  in  the  twilight  of  the  dingy  room,  and  in 
the  twilight  of  her  eyes,  he  saw  the  flame  once  more.  A 
thin  glint  of  sunshine  found  its  way  in  from  the  street, 
and  threw  a  shadow  near  them.  Cuckoo's  eyes  emitted 
a  greenish  ray  like  a  cat's,  and  in  this  ray  the  flame 
swam  and  flickered,  cold  and  pale,  and,  Julian  fancied, 
menacing. 

Perhaps,  because  he  was  already  irritated  and  slightly 
strung  up  by  Cuckoo's  attack,  he  felt  a  sudden  anger 
against  the  flame,  almost  as  he  might  have  felt  a  rage 
against  a  person.  As  he  stared  upon  it,  he  could  almost 
believe  that  it,  too,  had  eyes,  scrutinizing,  upbraiding, 
condemning  him,  and  that  in  the  thin  riband  and  shade  of 
its  fire  there  dwelt  a  heart  to  hate  him  for  the  dear  sin  to 
which,  at  last,  he  began  to  give  himself.  For  the  mo- 
ment Cuckoo  and  the  flame  were  as  one,  and  for  the  mo- 
ment he  feared  and  hated  them  both. 


JULIAN   FEARS   THE    FLAME  269 

Abruptly  he  held  up  his  hand  to  stop  the  further 
words  that  were  fluttering  on  her  thin  and  painted  lips. 

"Hush!  "  he  said,  in  a  little  hiss  of  protest  against 
sound. 

For  again,  fighting  with  the  anger,  there  was  awe  in 
his  heart. 

There  was  something  unusual  in  his  expression  which 
held  her  silent,  a  furtive  horror  and  expectation  which 
she  did  not  understand.  And  while  she  waited,  Julian 
turned  suddenly,  and  left  the  room  and  the  house. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  LADY  OF  THE  FEATHERS  LEARNS  WISDOM 

Julian  did  not  come  again  to  the  house  in  the  Maryle- 
bone  Road  for  at  least  a  fortnight,  and  during  that  time 
the  lady  of  the  feathers  was  left  alone  with  her  life  and 
with  her  sad  thoughts.  The  summer  days  went  heavily 
by,  and  the  sultry  summer  nights.  No  rain  fell,  and 
London  was  veiled  in  dust.  The  pavements  were  so  hot 
that  they  burned  the  feet  that  trod  them.  Sometimes 
they  seemed  to  burn  Cuckoo's  very  soul,  and  to  sear  her 
heart  as  she  stood  upon  them  for  hours  in  the  night, 
while  the  crowds  of  Piccadilly  flitted  by  like  shadows  in 
an  evil  dream.  She  stared  mechanically  at  the  faces  of 
those  passing  as  she  strolled  with  a  lagging  footstep 
along  the  line  of  houses.  She  turned  to  meet  the  eyes 
of  the  pale-faced  loungers  in  the  lighted  entrance  of  the 
St.  James's  restaurant,  "Jimmy's,"  as  she  called  it. 
But  her  mind  was  preoccupied.  A  problem  had  fastened 
upon  it  with  the  tenacity  of  some  vampire  or  strange 
clinging  creature  of  night.  Cuckoo  was  wrestling  with 
an  angel;  or  was  it  a  devil?  And  often,  when  she  stopped 
on  the  pavement  and  exchanged  a  word  or  two  with  some 
casual  stranger,  she  scarcely  knew  what  she  said,  or  to 
what  kind  of  man  she  was  speaking.  She  was  possessed 
by  one  thought,  the  thought  of  Julian  and  of  his  danger. 
Valentine,  in  her  thoughts,  was  strangely  a  pale  shadow, 
incredibly  evil,  incredibly  persistent,  luring  Julian  down- 
wards, beckoning  him  with  the  thin  hand  of  a  saint  to 
depths  unpierced  by  the  gaze  of  even  the  most  sinful. 
And  that  hand  of  the  saint  was  only  part  of  the  appall- 
ing deception  of  his  beautiful  and  tragically  lying  body, 
a  crystal  temple  in  which  a  demon  dwelt  secretly, 
peering  from  its  concealment  through  the  shadowy  blue 

270 


THE   LADY   LEARNS   WISDOM  271 

windows,  in  which  Julian  saw  truth  and  honour,  but  in 
which  Cuckoo  read  things  to  terrify  and  to  dismay. 

For  she  was  not  wholly  unaware  of  the  mystery  of 
Valentine,  of  the  sharp  contrast  between  his  appearance 
and  the  vision  of  his  nature  as  it  came  to  her.  She  un- 
derstood that  there  was  something  in  the  fine  beauty  of 
his  face  and  figure  to  account  for  Julian's  blindness  and 
refusal  to  be  warned  against  him.  Cuckoo's  intuition, 
the  intuition  of  an  unlearned  and  instinctive  creature 
trained  by  the  hardest  circumstances  to  rely  on  what  she 
called  her  wits,  laid  the  crystal  temple  in  ruins,  and 
drove  the  demon  from  its  lurking-place  naked  and  shriek- 
ing into  the  open.  But,  after  all,  was  not  she  rather 
deceived  than  Julian?  Julian,  from  the  first  moment  of 
meeting  Valentine,  looked  upon  him  as  saint.  Cuckoo, 
from  the  first  moment  of  meeting,  looked  upon  him  as 
devil.  Each  put  him  aside  from  the  general  run  of 
humanity,  the  one  in  a  heaven  of  the  imagination,  the 
other  in  a  hell.  Neither  would  allow  him  to  be  midway 
between  the  two,  containing  possibilities  of  both, — ordi- 
nary, natural  man.  Julian  angrily  scouted  the  notion 
of  Valentine's  being  like  other  men.  Cuckoo  felt  in- 
stinctively that  he  was  not.  And  so  they  glorified  and 
cursed  him. 

Cuckoo  had  at  first  cursed  him  plainly  in  the  market- 
place and  upon  the  house-top.  But  that  was  before  she 
had  learned  wisdom.  Slowly  she  learnt  it  on  these  hot 
days  and  nights,  when  the  London  dust  filtered  over  the 
paint  upon  her  cheeks  and  lips,  clung  round  the  shadows 
in  the  hollows  beneath  her  eyes,  and  slept  in  the  artificial 
primrose  of  her  elaborate  cloud  of  hair.  Slowly  she 
learnt  it  in  many  vague  and  struggling  mental  arguments, 
in  which  logic  was  a  dwarf  and  passion  a  giant,  in  which 
instinct  strangled  reason,  and  love  wandered  as  a  shame- 
faced fairy  with  tear-dimmed  eyes. 

Julian's  prolonged  absence  and  silence  first  taught  the 
lady  of  the  feathers  the  slow  necessity  of  wisdom,  other- 
wise, perhaps,  her  vehement  ignorance  could  never  have 
absorbed  the  precious  thing.  Women  of  her  training  and 
vile  experience,  nerve-ridden,  and  clothed  in  hysteria  as 
in  a  garment,  often  think  to  gain  what  they  want  by  the 


272  FLAMES 

mere  shrillness  of  outcry,  the  mere  grabbing  of  osten- 
tatious, eager  hands  and  frenzy  of  body.  Their  lives 
lead  them  through  a  wonder  of  knowledge  and  of  danger 
to  the  demeanour  of  babyhood,  and  they  cry  for  every 
rattle,  much  more  for  every  moon.  So  Cuckoo  had 
thrown  her  feelings  down  before  Julian.  She  had  dashed 
her  hatred  of  Valentine  in  his  face;  she  had  cried  her 
fears  of  his  downfall  to  that  which  she  consorted 
with  eternally  and  loathed  —  when  she  had  still  the 
energy  to  loathe  it,  which  was  not  always  —  in  his  ears 
with  the  ardent  shrillness  of  a  boatswain's  whistle.  She 
had,  in  fact,  done  all  that  her  instinct  prompted  her  to 
do,  and  the  result  was  the  exit  of  Julian  from  her  life. 
This  set  her,  always  in  her  sharp  and  yet  childish  way, 
sometimes  oddly  clear  sighted,  often  muddled  and  dis- 
tressed, to  turn  upon  instinct  with  a  contempt  not  known 
before,  to  discard  it  with  the  fury  still  of  a  child.  And 
instinct  thus  forsaken  by  an  essentially  in ^-.tinctive  crea- 
ture opened  the  gates  of  distress  and  of  confusion. 

By  day  Cuckoo  sat  in  her  stuffy  little  parlour  brooding 
wearily.  She  waited  in  day  after  day,  always  hoping 
that  Julian  would  return,  full  of  resolutions,  prompted 
by  fear,  to  be  gentle,  even  lively,  to  him  when  he  did 
come,  full  of  excited  intention  which  could  not  be  ful- 
filled; for  he  did  not  come.  And  by  night,  while  she 
tramped  the  streets,  still  Cuckoo's  anxious  mind  revolved 
the  question  of  her  behaviour  in  the  future.  For  she 
would  not,  passionately  would  not,  allow  herself  to  con- 
template the  possibility  that  Julian's  anger  against  her 
would  keep  him  forever  beyond  reach  either  of  her  fury 
or  of  her  tenderness.  She  insisted  on  contemplating  his 
ultimate  reappearance,  and  her  wits  were  at  work  to  de- 
vise means  to  win  him  from  Valentine's  influence  without 
stirring  his  horror  at  any  thought  of  disloyalty  to  his 
friend.  Cuckoo,  in  fact,  wanted  to  be  subtle,  intended 
to  be  subtle,  and  sought  intensely  the  right  way  of  sub- 
tlety. She  sought  it  as  she  walked,  as  she  hovered  at 
street  corners  in  the  night,  while  the  hours  ran  by,  some- 
times till  the  streets  were  nearly  deserted,  sometimes 
even  till  the  dawn  sang  in  the  sky  to  the  wail  of  the 
hungry  woman  beneath  it.     She   sought  it  even   in  the 


THE   LADY   LEARNS   WISDOM  273 

company  of  those  strangers  who  stepped  for  a  night 
into  her  life  as  into  a  public  room,  and  stepped  from  it 
on  the  morrow  with  a  careless  and  everlasting  adieu, 
half-drowned  in  the  chink  of  money. 

And  sometimes  she  thought,  with  a  sick  dreariness, 
that  she  would  never  find  it,  and  sometimes  courage 
failed  her,  and,  despite  her  passionate  resolution,  she  did 
for  a  moment  say  to  herself,  "If  he  should  never  come 
again."  There  were  moments,  too,  when  every  other 
feeling  was  drowned  by  sheer  jealousy  of  Julian,  when 
the  tiger-cat  woke  in  this  street-girl  who  had  always  had 
to  fight,  when  her  thin  frame  shivered  with  the  shaking 
violence  of  the  soul  it  held.  Then  she  clenched  her 
hands,  and  longed  to  plant  her  nails  in  the  faces  of  those 
other  women,  divined,  though  never  seen, — those  French 
women  who  had  sung  him,  like  sirens,  to  Paris,  away 
from  the  sea  of  her  greedy  love.  Her  similes  were  com- 
monplace. In  her  heart  she  called  such  sirens  hussies. 
Had  she  met  them  the  battle  of  words  would  have  been 
strong  and  singularly  unclean.  That  she  herself  was  a 
hussy  to  other  men,  not  to  Julian,  did  not  trouble  her. 
She  did  not  realize  it.  Human  nature  has  always  one 
blind  eye,  even  when  the  other  does  not  squint.  This 
passion  of  jealousy,  circling  round  an  absent  man,  seized 
her  at  the  strangest,  the  most  inopportune  moments. 
Sometimes  it  came  upon  her  in  the  street,  and  the  medi- 
tation of  it  was  so  vital  and  complete  that  Cuckoo  could 
not  go  on  walking,  lest  she  should,  by  movement,  miss 
the  keenest  edge  of  the  agony.  Then  she  would  stop 
wherever  she  was,  lean  against  the  down-drawn  shutter 
of  a  shop,  or  the  corner  of  a  public  house,  among  the 
gaping  loungers,  let  her  powdered  chin  drop  upon  her 
oreast,  and  sink  into  a  fit  of  desperate  detective  duty, 
during  which  she  followed  Julian  like  a  shadow  through 
imagined  wanderings,  and  watched  him  committing  all 
those  imagined  actions  that  could  cause  her  to  feel  the 
wildest  and  most  inhuman  despair. 

One  night,  when  she  was  thus  sunk  and  swallowed  up 
in  the  maw  of  miserable  inward  contemplation,  a  young 
man,  who  was  walking  by,  observed  her.  He  was  very 
young  and  eager,  fresh  from  Cambridge,  ardent  after  the 


274  FLAMES 

mysteries  and  the  subtleties  of  life,  as  is  the  fashion  of 
clever  modern  youth.  The  sight  of  this  painted  girl 
leaning,  motionless  as  some  doll  or  puppet,  against  the 
iron  shutters  of  the  vacant  house,  her  head  drooped,  and 
her  hands,  as  if  the  strings  to  manipulate  her  had  fallen 
loose  from  the  grasp  that  guided  them,  caught  and  event- 
ually fascinated  him.  It  was  a  late  hour  of  night.  He 
passed  on  and  returned,  shooting  each  time  a  devouring, 
analytical  glance  upon  Cuckoo.  Again  he  came  back, 
walking  a  little  nearer  to  the  houses.  His  heart  beat 
quicker  as  he  approached  the  puppet.  Its  complete  im- 
mobility was  almost  appalling,  and  each  time  he  came 
within  view  of  it  he  examined  it  violently  to  see  if  a  limb 
was  displaced.  No;  one  might  almost  suppose  that  it 
was  the  body  of  some  one  struck  dead  so  suddenly 
against  the  shop  that  she  had  not  had  time  to  fall,  and 
so  remained  leaning  thus.  With  shorter  and  shorter  rev- 
olutions, like  a  dog  working  itself  up  to  approach  some 
motionless  but  strange  object,  the  youth  went  by 
Cuckoo,  hesitating  more  and  more  each  time  he  came  in 
front  of  her  with  strange  feelings  of  one  being  vaguely 
criminal.  He  longed  to  touch  the  puppet,  to  see  if  any 
quiver  would  convulse  its  limbs,  any  light  flicker  into  its 
eyes.  And  he  was  so  fascinated  and  interested  that  at 
last  he  did  furtively  stop  precisely  in  front  of  it.  For  a 
second  both  of  them  were  motionless,  he  from  contem- 
plation of  the  outward,  she  of  the  inward.  Then  Cuckoo's 
thoughtful  jealousy  came  to  a  ghastly  crisis.  Her  ima- 
gination had  shown  her  frightful  things  and  herself  an 
utterly  helpless  and  compelled  spectator.  The  puppet 
opened  its  red  lips  to  utter  a  sob,  lifted  up  its  white  and 
heavy  eyelids  to  let  loose  tears  upon  its  unnaturally 
bright  cheeks,  stirred  its  hanging  hands  to  clasp  them  in 
a  crude  gesture  of  dull  fury.  The  youth  started  as  at  a 
corpse  showing  suddenly  the  pangs  of  life.  His  move- 
ment shot  Cuckoo  like  a  bullet  into  her  real  world. 
Through  her  tears  she  saw  a  man  regarding  her.  In  a 
flash,  old  habit  brought  to  her  a  smile,  a  turned  head  of 
coquetry,  an  entreating  hand,  a  hackneyed  phrase  that 
reiteration  rendered  parrot-like  in  intonation.  The  youth 
shrank  back  and  fled  away  in  the  darkness.     Long  after- 


THE    LADY    LEARNS    WISDOM  275 

wards  that  incident  haunted  him  as  an  epitome  of  all  the 
horrors  of  cruel  London. 

And  Cuckoo,  thus  roused  and  deserted,  put  aside  for 
the  moment  her  nightmare,  and  started  once  more  upon 
her  promenade  of  the  night. 

At  last  she  began  to  fear  that  Julian  would  never  come 
back,  and  by  a  sudden  impulse  she  wrote  to  him  a  short, 
very  ill-spelt  letter,  hoping  he  would  come  to  tea  with  her 
on  a  certain  afternoon.  On  the  day  mentioned  she  waited 
in  an  agony  of  expectation.  She  had  put  on  his  black 
dress,  removed  all  traces  of  paint  and  powder  from  her 
face,  remembering  his  former  request  and  her  experiment, 
tricked  Jessie  out  in  a  bright  yellow  satin  riband  twisted 
into  a  bow  almost  larger  than  herself ,  and  bought  flowers — 
large  ones,  sunflowers  —  to  give  to  her  dingy  room  an  air 
of  refinement  and  of  gaiety.  Amid  all  this  brilliancy  of 
yellow  satin  and  yellow  flowers  she  waited  uneasily  in  her 
simple  black  gown.  The  day  was  dull,  not  wet,  but 
brooding  and  severe,  iron-grey,  like  a  hard-featured 
Puritan,  and  still  with  the  angry  peace  of  coming  thun- 
der. The  window  was  open  to  let  in  air,  but  no  air 
seemed  to  enter,  only  the  weariful  and  incessant  street 
noises.  Jessie  wriggled  about,  biting  sideways  with 
animation  to  get  at  her  yellow  adornment,  and  pattering 
around  the  furniture  seeking  stray  crumbs,  which  some- 
times eluded  her  for  a  while  and,  lying  in  hidden  nooks  and 
corners,  unexpectedly  rewarded  her  desultory  and  im- 
promptu search.  Cuckoo  leaned  her  arms  across  the 
table,  glanced  at  the  tea  things  for  two,  and  listened.  A 
cab  stopped  presently.  She  twisted  in  her  chair  to  face 
the  window.  It  had  drawn  up  next  door,  and  she  sub- 
sided again  into  her  fever  of  attention.  Jessie  found  a 
crumb  and  swallowed  it  with  as  much  action  and  large 
air  of  tasting  it  as  if  it  had  been  a  city  dinner.  The 
hands  of  the  clock  drew  to  the  hour  named  in  Cuckoo's 
note,  touched  it,  passed  it.  A  sickness  of  despair  began 
to  creep  upon  her  like  a  thousand  little  biting  insects. 
She  shuffled  in  her  seat,  glanced  this  way  and  that, 
pressed  her  lips  together,  and,  taking  her  arms  from  the 
table,  clasped  her  hands  tightly  in  her  lap.  Then  she 
sat  straight  up  and  counted  the  tickings  of  the  clock,  the 


276  FLAMES 

spots  on  the  tablecloth,  the  gold  stars  upon  the  wall- 
paper of  the  room.  She  counted  and  counted  until  her 
head  began  to  swim.  And  all  the  time  she  waited,  the 
lady  of  the  feathers  was  learning  wisdom.  The  lesson 
was  harsh,  as  the  lessons  of  time  usually  are;  the  lesson 
was  bitter  as  Marah  waters.  And  she  thought  the  lesson 
was  going  to  be  across  too  heavy  for  her  narrow  shoul- 
ders to  bear  when  the  iron  gate  of  the  garden  sang  its 
invariable  little  note  of  protest  on  being  opened. 
Cuckoo's  head  turned  slowly  to  one  side.  Her  haggard 
eyes  swept  the  view  of  the  path.  Julian  was  walking 
up  it. 

She  met  him  very  quietly,  almost  seriously,  and  he 
shook  hands  with  her  as  if  they  had  been  together  quite 
recently  and  parted  the  best  of  friends.  Only,  as  he 
held  her  hand,  she  noticed  that  he  cast  a  hast}%  and  as 
she  fancied  a  fearful,  glance  into  her  eyes.  Then  he 
seemed  reassured  and  they  sat  down  to  tea.  Cuckoo 
supposed  that  he  had  for  the  moment  dreaded  what  she 
called  another  row,  and  was  satisfied  by  her  expression 
of  good  temper.  They  drank  their  tea,  and  after  a  short 
interval  of  constraint  began  chattering  together  very 
much  as  usual.  At  first  Cuckoo  had  hardly  dared  to 
look  much  at  Julian,  lest  he  should  see  the  joy  she  felt 
at  his  coming,  but  when  she  was  pouring  out  his  second 
cup  she  let  her  eyes  rest  fully  on  his  face,  and  only  then 
did  she  realize  that  a  shadow  lay  upon  it,  a  shadow  from 
which  it  had  been  free  before. 

With  a  trembling  hand  she  filled  the  cup  and  stared 
upon  the  shadow.  She  knew  its  brethren  so  well.  In 
dead  days  she  herself  had  helped  to  manufacture  such 
shadows  upon  the  faces  of  men.  She  had  seen  them 
come,  thin,  faint,  delicate,  impalpable  as  a  veil  of  mist 
before  morning.  Only  morning  light  never  followed 
them.  And  she  had  seen  them  stay  and  grow  and  deepen 
and  darken.  Shadow  over  the  eyes  of  the  man,  shadow 
round  his  lips,  shadow  like  a  cloud  upon  the  forehead, 
shadow  over  the  picture  painted  by  the  soul,  working 
through  the  features,  that  we  call  expression.  Many 
times  had  she  seen  the  journey  taken  by  a  man's  face  to 
that  haunted  bourne,  arrived  at  which  it  is  scarcely  any 


THE    LADY    LEARNS    WISDOM  277 

more  a  man's  face,  but  only  a  mask  expressive  of  one,  or 
of  many,  sins.  Had  Julian  then  definitely  set  foot  upon 
that  journey?  As  yet  the  shadow  that  lay  over  him  was 
no  more  than  the  lightest  film,  suggestive  of  a  slightly 
unnatural  and  forbidding  fatigue.  Yet  Cuckoo  shrank 
from  it  as  from  a  ghost. 

"Why,  Cuckoo,  your  hand  is  trembling!"  Julian 
said. 

"Oh,  I  was  out  late  last  night,"  she  answered,  putting 
the  teapot  hastily  down.  And  they  talked  on,  pretending 
there  were  only  two  of  them  and  no  shadowy  third. 

Julian,  having  returned  at  last  to  the  Marylebone 
Road,  fell  into  his  old  habit  of  coming  there  often.  And 
each  time  that  he  came  the  lady  of  the  feathers  counted 
a  fresh  step  on  his  hideous  journey  towards  the  haunted 
bourne.  Yet  she  never  spoke  of  the  dreary  addition 
sum  she  was  doing.  She  never  reproached  Julian,  or 
wept,  or  let  him  see  that  her  heart  was  growing  cold  as  a 
pilgrim  who  kneels,  bare,  in  long  prayers  upon  the  steps 
of  a  shrine.  For  she  had  learnt  wisdom,  and  hugged  it 
in  her  arms.  Valentine  was  scarcely  ever  mentioned 
between  them ;  but  once,  and  evidently  by  accident,  Julian 
allowed  an  expression  to  escape  him  which  implied  that 
Valentine  now  objected  to  the  intimacy  with  Cuckoo. 
Immediately  the  words  were  uttered,  Julian  looked  con- 
fused, and  obviously  would  have  wished  to  recall  them, 
had  it  been  possible. 

"  Oh,  I  know  as  he  do  n't  like  me,"  Cuckoo  said. 

Julian  answered  nothing. 

"Why  d' you  come,  then?"  she  continued,  with  a 
certain  desperation.  "  There  ain  't  nothin'  here  to  bring 
you.     I  know  that  well  enough." 

She  cast  a  comprehensive  glance  round  over  the  badly 
furnished  room. 

"  Nothin'  at  all,"  she  added  with  a  sigh. 

While  she  spoke  Julian  began  to  wonder,  too,  why 
he  came,  why  he  liked  to  come  there.  As  Cuckoo 
said,  there  was  nothing  at  all  to  bring  him  so  often. 
He  liked  her,  he  was  sorry  for  her,  he  had  even  a 
deep-running  sympathy  for  her,  but  he  did  not  love 
her.     Yet  he  was  fascinated  to  come  to  her,  and  there 


278  FLAMES 

were  sometimes  moments  when  he  seemed  taken  posses- 
sion of,  led  by  the  hand,  to  that  squalid  room  and  that 
squalid  presence  in  it.  Why  was  that?  What  led  him  ? 
He  could  not  tell. 

"I  like  coming  here,"  he  said;  "and  of  course  it's 
nothing  to  Valentine  where  I  go." 

Cuckoo  glanced  up  hastily  at  the  words.  A  little 
serpent  enmity  surely  hissed  in  them.  Julian  spoke  as  if 
he  were  a  man  with  some  rebel  feeling  at  his  heart.  But 
the  serpent  glided  and  was  gone  as  he  added: 

'■  I  'm  always  with  him  when  I  *m  not  with  you,  for  I 
haven't  seen  the  doctor  for  ages." 

"The  doctor!     Who's  that,  then,  "  asked  Cuckoo. 

"Doctor  Levillier.  Surely  you've  heard  me  talk 
about  him." 

"No,  dearie." 

"Oh,  he  's  a  nerve-doctor,  and  a  sort  of  little  saint, 
lives  for  his  work,  and  is  a  deuced  religious  chap,  never 
does  anything,  you  know." 

Julian  looked  at  her. 

"Oh,"  she  said. 

"And  believes  in  everything.  He's  a  dear  little 
chap,  the  kindest  heart  in  the  world,  good  to  every  one, 
no  matter  who  it  is.      He  's  devoted  to  Valentine." 

"Eh?  "  said  Cuckoo,  with  a  long-drawn  intonation  of 
astonishment. 

"I  say  he  's  devoted  to  Valentine,"  Julian  repeated 
rather  irritably.  His  temper  was  much  less  certain  and 
sunny  lately  than  of  old.  "But  I  believe  he  's  devoted 
to  every  one  he  can  do  any  good  to.  We  used  to  see 
him  continually,  but  he  's  been  abroad  for  weeks,  looking 
after  a  bad  case,  a  Russian  Grand  Duke  in  Italy,  who 
would  have  him,  and  pays  him  all  the  fees  he  'd  be  getting 
in  London.      He  '11  be  coming  back  directly,  I  think." 

"Where  does  he  live?"  said  Cuckoo,  ever  so  care- 
lessly. 

Julian  gave  the  number  in  Harley  Street  rather  ab- 
stractedly. Their  conversation  had  led  him  to  think  of 
the  little  doctor.  Would  he  be  glad  to  see  him  again? 
And  would  Valentine?  He  tried  to  realize,  and  presently 
understood,  and  had  a  moment  of  shame  at  his  own  feel- 


THE    LADY    LEARNS    WISDOM  379 

ing.  Soon  afterwards  he  went  away.  That  night,  be- 
fore she  went  to  Piccadilly,  Cuckoo  walked  round  to 
Harley  Street.  She  wandered  slowly  down  the  long 
thoroughfare  and  presently  came  to  the  doctor's  house. 
There  was  a  brass  plate  upon  the  door.  The  light  from 
a  gas  lamp,  just  lit,  flickered  upon  it,  and  Cuckoo,  stop- 
ping, bent  downwards  and  slowly  read  the  printed  name, 
"Doctor  Levillier. "  Did  it  look  a  nice  name,  a  kind 
name?  She  considered  that  question  childishly,  stand- 
ing there  alone.  Then,  without  making  up  her  mind  on 
the  subject,  she  turned  to  go.  As  she  did  so  she  saw 
the  tall  figure  of  a  man  motionless  under  the  gas-lamp  on 
the  other  side  of  the  street.  He  was  evidently  regard- 
ing her,  and  Cuckoo  felt  a  sudden  thrill  of  terror  as  she 
recognized  Valentine.  They  stood  still  on  the  two 
pavements  for  a  minute,  looking  across  at  one  another. 
Cuckoo  could  only  see  Valentine's  face  faintly,  but  she 
fancied  it  was  angry  and  distorted,  and  her  terror  grew. 
She  hesitated  what  to  do,  when  he  made  what  seemed  to 
her  a  threatening  gesture,  and  walked  quickly  away  down 
the  street. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  LADY  OF  THE  FEATHERS  BUCKLES  ON 
HER  ARMOUR 

That  evening  Cuckoo  remained  in  a  condition  of  min- 
gled terror  and  resolution.  There  was  something  about 
Valentine  that  filled  her,  not  merely  with  alarm,  but  with 
a  nameless  horror,  indescribable  and  inveterate.  She 
felt  that  he  was  her  deadly  enemy  and  the  enemy  of 
Julian.  But  he  had  cast  such  a  spell  over  Julian  that 
the  latter  was  blinded  and  ready  to  follow  him  anywhere, 
and  not  merely  to  follow  him,  but  to  defend  every  step 
he  took.  Cuckoo  had  a  sense  of  entering  upon  a  combat 
with  Valentine.  As  she  stood  upon  the  doorstep  in 
Harley  Street  and  faced  him  under  the  gas-lamp,  were 
they  not  as  antagonists  definitely  crossing  swords  for 
the  first  time?  It  seemed  so  to  her.  And  the  impres- 
sion upon  her  was  so  strong  and  so  exciting,  that  for 
once  she  broke  through  her  invariable  routine.  Instead  of 
going  to  Piccadilly  she  went  home  to  her  lodgings.  It 
was  about  half-past  nine  when  she  arrived  and  opened 
the  door  with  her  latchkey.  Mrs.  Brigg  happened  to 
be  in  the  passage  en  route  to  the  kitchen  from  some 
business  in  the  upper  regions.  She  stared  upon  Cuckoo 
with  amazement. 

"What  ever,"  she  began,  her  voice  croaky  with  in- 
terrogation.     "Are  you  ill?     What  are  you  back  for?  " 

"I 'm  all  right, "  said  Cuckoo  crossly.  "Leave  me 
alone,  do." 

She  turned  into  her  sitting-room.  Mrs.  Brigg  fol- 
lowed, open-mouthed. 

"  Ain't  you  a-goin*  out  ag'in?  " 

"  No ;  oh  do  leave  off  starin'.  What 's  the  matter  with 
you?" 

Mrs.  Brigg  heaved  a  thick  sigh   and   shuffled  round 

280 


SHE    BUCKLES   ON    HER   ARMOUR     281 

upon  her  heels,  which  made  a  noise  upon  the  oilcloth 
like  the  boots  of  the  comic  man  at  a  music-hall. 

"Well,"  she  said  with  a  sudden  grimness,  "I  hope 
it'll  be  all  right  about  the  rent,  that's  all." 

She  vanished,  shaking  her  head,  on  which  a  stray 
curl-paper,  bereft  of  its  comrades  of  the  morning,  sat 
unique  in  a  thin  forest  of  iron-grey  wisps. 

Cuckoo  shut  her  door  and  sat  down  to  think.  But 
at  first  she  had  to  receive  the  attentions  of  Jessie,  who 
was  even  more  surprised  than  Mrs.  Brigg  at  her  unex- 
pected return,  and  who  began  to  bark  with  shrill  joy 
and  run  violently  round  the  room  with  the  speed  of  a 
rat  emancipated  from  a  cage.  As  she  would  not  consent 
to  repose  herself  again,  Cuckoo  at  last  put  her  into  the 
next  room,  on  the  bed,  and  shut  the  door  on  her.  Then 
she  returned,  lit  all  the  three  gas-burners  and  turned  them 
full  on,  before  she  removed  her  hat,  and  definitely 
settled  herself  in  for  the  evening.  She  was  fearful,  and 
dreaded  darkness,  or  even  twilight.  The  pulse  of 
London  beat  round  her  while  she  stretched  herself  on 
the  hard  sofa,  let  down  her  touzled  yellow  hair,  and 
frowned  slowly  as  the  unlearned  do  when  they  know 
that  they  want  to  meditate. 

Now  and  then  she  rose  suddenly  on  her  elbow,  half 
turned  her  head  towards  the  window  and  listened.  She 
had  thought  she  heard  a  step  on  the  pavement  pause, 
and  the  cry  of  the  little  iron  gate.  Then,  reassured, 
she  leaned  back  once  more.  She  had  taken  off  her 
boots,  and  her  feet,  in  black  stockings  gone  a  little 
white  at  the  toes,  were  tilted  up  on  the  shoulder  of  the 
sofa.  She  fixed  her  eyes  mechanically  upon  them  while 
she  began,  ail-confusedly,  and  with  the  blurred  vague- 
ness of  the  illiterate,  to  plan  out  a  campaign.  Not  that 
she  said  that  word  to  herself;  she  did  not  know  its 
meaning.  All  that  she  knew  was,  that  she  wanted  to 
put  her  back  against  the  wall,  or  get  into  an  angle,  like 
a  cornered  animal,  and  use  her  teeth  and  claws  against 
Valentine,  that  menacing  figure  with  an  angel's  face. 
And  what  disgusted  and  drove  Cuckoo  almost  mad  as 
she  lay  there  in  the  crude  gaslight  was  the  abominable 
fact  that  she  was  desperately  afraid  of  Valentine.    There 


282  FLAMES 

was  something  about  him  which  filled  her  not  only  with 
intense  horror,  but  with  something  worse  than  horror, — 
intense  fear.  Why,  she  had  all  three  gas-burners  alight 
because,  having  met  him  that  night  and  seen  him  watch- 
ing her,  she  trembled  at  the  faintest  shadow  and  must 
see  things  plainly,  lest  their  dim  outlines  should  appal 
her  fancy  by  taking  his  form. 

Only  once  had  the  lady  of  the  feathers  known  such 
enfeebling  terror  as  this,  on  the  night  when  she  fied 
from  the  hotel  in  the  Euston  Road  and  left  Marr  dying 
on  the  bed  between  the  tall  windows.  More  than  once, 
in  her  thoughts,  had  she  loosely  linked  Marr  with  Val- 
entine, puzzled,  scarcely  knowing  why  she  did  so.  And 
she  repeated  the  mental  operation  now  more  definitely. 
They  had  at  least  one  thing  in  common,  this  extraordi- 
nary power  of  striking  fear  into  her  soul.  And  Cuckoo  was 
not  accustomed  to  sit  with  fear.  Her  life  had  bred  in 
her  a  strong,  tough-fibred  restlessness.  She  was  essen- 
tially a  careless  creature,  ready  to  argue,  quarrel,  hold 
her  own  with  anybody,  proud,  as  a  rule,  of  being  a 
match  for  any  man  and  well  able  to  take  care  of  herself. 
She  had  knocked  about,  and  was  utterly  familiar  with 
many  horrors  of  the  streets,  and  of  nameless  houses. 
She  had  heard  many  rows  at  night;  had  been  in  brawls; 
had  been  waked,  in  the  dense  hours,  by  sudden  sharp 
cries  for  help;  was  accustomed  to  be  alone  with 
strangers,  men  of  unknown  history,  of  unknown  deeds. 
And  all  these  circumstances  she  met  with  absolute 
carelessness,  with  a  devil-may-care  laugh,  or  the  sigh  of 
one  weary,  but  not  afraid.  She  was  no  more  timid  than 
the  average  English  street-boy.  Only  these  two  men, 
one  dead,  one  alive,  knew  how  to  dress  her  in  terror 
from  head  to  foot,  brain,  heart,  and  body.  And  so  she 
joined  them  in  a  ghastly  brotherhood. 

But  to-night  she  was  making  a  conscious  effort  against 
the  domination  of  Valentine,  for  the  awakening  of  fear 
in  her  was  counterbalanced  by  other  feelings  prompting 
her  to  fight.  And  once  Cuckoo  began  to  fight  she  felt 
that  she  would  not  lack  courage.  For  she  clung  to 
action,  and  hated  thought,  walking  clearly  in  the  one, 
but  through  a  maze  in  the  other. 


SHE    BUCKLES   ON   HER   ARMOUR     283 

Despite  her  fear  of  him,  something  drove  her  to  fight 
Valentine;  only  she  did  not  know  how  to  fight  him.  It 
was  in  a  mood  of  doubt  that  she  had  wandered  into 
Harley  Street  and  bent  to  read  the  name  on  the  door  of 
Dr.  Levillier.  Julian's  description  of  the  doctor  had 
appealed  to  her.  The  mention  of  his  goodness,  of  his 
pure  life,  of  his  care  for  others,  had  impressed  her,  she 
scarcely  knew  why,  and  brought  into  her  mind  a  desire 
to  see  this  little  man.  Yet  he  was  devoted  to  Valentine. 
And  then  Cuckoo,  lying  back  on  the  sofa,  felt  heart-sick, 
wondering  at  the  power  of  this  man  whom  she  hated  and 
feared,  wondering  how  she  could  ever  fight  against  his 
influence  over  Julian;  wondering,  too,  a  little,  why  it  was 
that  she  knew  she  must  and  certainly  would  fight  it. 
For  beyond  the  motive  power  of  her  love  and  jealousy, 
beyond  the  ordinary  woman's  desire  to  keep  the  man 
she  admired  from  sinking  to  the  level  of  the  men  she 
despised,  there  was  another  fiery  and  strong  and  urging 
insistent  influence  working  upon  her,  working  within  her, 
crying  to  her,  like  a  voice,  to  buckle  on  her  armour  and 
to  do  battle  with  the  enemy.  This  influence  came 
silently  from  without,  and  spoke  to  the  lady  of  the 
feathers  when  she  was  alone,  and  never  more  clearly  and 
powerfully  than  to-night.  It  wrestled  with  her  terror  of 
Valentine,  and  told  her  to  put  it  away,  to  come  into 
closer  relations  with  him  fearlessly,  not  to  flee  from  him, 
but  rather  to  watch  him,  dog  him,  learn  what  he  was  and 
what  he  was  doing  or  trying  to  do.  Yet  fear  fought  this 
growing,  stirring,  strange  warm  influence  that  burned 
like  a  fire  at  Cuckoo's  heart.  She  flushed  and  she  paled 
as  she  lay  there,  with  down-drawn  brows  and  enlaced 
hands,  her  yellow  hair  falling  over  the  hard,  shiny  horse- 
hair of  the  sofa.  She  longed  for  some  one  to  come  to 
her  who  would  give  her  counsel,  help,  courage,  that  she 
might  fight  for  Julian,  who  was  too  spell-bound  to  fight 
for  himself,  and  who  was  falling  so  fast,  so  terribly  fast, 
into  the  abyss  where  men  crawl  like  insects  and  women 
are  as  poisonous  weeds  in  the  slime  of  the  pit. 

Oh,  for  some  one! 

Involuntarily  she  sat  up  and  extended  her  thin  arms 
almost  as  if  in  a  beckoning  gesture. 


284  FLAMES 

As  she  did  so  the  front  door  bell  rang. 

Cuckoo  was  startled  and  felt  as  if  it  rang  for  her. 
But  that  was  unlikely;  and  there  were  other  lodgers  of 
her  kind  in  the  house.  No  doubt  it  was  a  visitor  for  one 
of  them. 

Mrs.  Brigg  went  in  weary  procession  along  the  pass- 
age and  opened  the  door.     A  few  words  were  indistinctly 
spoken   in  a  man's  voice.     Then    the   street  door  shut, 
and  almost  simultaneously  the  door  of  Cuckoo's  sitting 
room  opened  very  quietly  and  Valentine  entered. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

VALENTINE  EXPOUNDS  THE  GOSPEL  OF  INFLUENCE 
TO  THE  LADY  OF  THE  FEATHERS 

Valentine  closed  the  door  behind  him  and  stood  by 
it,  looking  at  Cuckoo  gravely.  She  had  pushed  herself 
up  on  the  sofa,  using  her  elbows  as  a  lever,  and  in  an 
awkward  attitude,  half  sitting,  half  lying  down,  stared  at 
him  with  startled  eyes.  Her  unshod  feet  were  drawn  in 
towards  her  body,  and  her  dyed  hair  hung  in  a  thick 
tangle  round  her  iface  and  on  her  shoulders.  She  said 
nothing. 

Valentine  put  his  hat  down  on  the  table  and  began  to 
take  off  his  gloves. 

"  I  am  glad  to  find  you  at  home,"  he  said  politely. 

Cuckoo  shifted  a  little  farther  back  on  the  sofa.  Now 
that  she  was  actually  shut  up  alone  with  Valentine,  fear 
returned  upon  her  and  banished  every  other  feeling, 
every  desire  except  the  desire  to  be  away  from  him. 
She  ran  her  tongue  over  her  lips,  which  had  suddenly 
become  dry. 

"What  are  you  come  for?"  she  asked,  never  taking 
her  eyes  from  his. 

"  To  see  you,  I  have  never  yet  returned  your  kind 
call  upon  me." 

"Eh?" 

Cuckoo  spoke  in  the  tone  of  one  who  had  become 
deaf,  and  she  felt  as  if  the  agitation  of  her  mind  actually 
clamoured  within  her  like  a  crowd  of  human  voices, 
deadening  sounds  from  without.  Valentine  repeated  his 
remark,  adding: 

"Won't  you  ask  me  to  sit  down  ?  " 

He  put  his  hand  on  the  back  of  a  chair. 

"May  I?" 

Cuckoo  gave  her  body  a  jerk  which  brought  her  feet 

285 


286  FLAMES 

down  to  the  floor,  so  that  she  was  sitting  upright.  She 
pushed  out  one  of  her  hands  as  if  in  protest. 

"You  can't  sit  here,"  she  murmured. 

♦'  I?     Why  not?" 

**I  can't  have  you  here,  nor  I  won't  either." 

Her  voice  was  growing  louder  and  fiercer  as  the  first 
paralysis  of  surprise  died  gradually  away  from  her. 
After  all,  she  had  not  buckled  on  her  armour  only  to  run 
away  from  the  enemy  in  it.  The  street  Arab  impudence 
was  not  quite  killed  in  her  by  the  strange  influence  of 
this  man.  The  mere  fact  of  having  her  feet  firmly 
planted  upon  the  floor  gave  Cuckoo  a  certain  fillip  of 
courage,  and  she  tossed  her  head  with  that  old  vulgar 
gesture  of  hers  which  suggested  the  harridan.  She 
pointed  to  the  door. 

"  Out  you  go!  "  she  cried. 

For  her  intrepidity  had  not  risen  to  calm  contempla- 
tion of  an  interview.  She  was  only  bracing  herself  up 
to  the  necessary  momentary  endurance  of  his  presence, 
which  followed  upon  Mrs.  Brigg's  admittance  of  him 
within  the  door. 

Valentine  heard  the  gentle  hint  unmoved,  and  replied 
to  it  by  drawing  a  chair  out  from  the  table  and  sitting 
down  upon  it.  A  sort  of  rage,  stirred  by  terror,  ran 
over  Cuckoo.  She  seized  the  back  of  his  chair  with  both 
hands  and  shook  it  violently. 

"No,  you  don't  stay,"  she  ejaculated;  "I  won't 
have  it!  " 

It  was  characteristic  of  her  to  lose  all  sense  of  dignity 
at  an  instant,  when  dignity  might  have  served  her  pur- 
pose. Her  outburst  might  have  been  directed  against  a 
statue.  Valentine  neither  moved  nor  looked  in  any  way 
affected.  Glancing  at  Cuckoo  with  a  whimsical  amuse- 
ment, he  said: 

"What  a  child  you  are!  When  will  you  learn  wis- 
dom!" 

Cuckoo  took  away  her  hands.  A  conviction  pierced 
her  that  the  weapons  a  woman  may  use  with  effect 
against  an  ordinary  man  could  be  of  no  service  now,  and 
with  this  man.  She  faded  abruptly  from  anger  and  vio- 
lence into  fatigue,  always  closely  accompanied  by  fear. 


THE    GOSPEL   OF   INFLUENCE         287 

"  I  'm  awfully  tired  to-night,"  she  said.  "  Please  do 
go  !     I  *m  home  because  I  'm  tired." 

"  The  walk  from  Harley  Street  was  too  much  for  you. 
You  should  n't  make  such  exertions." 

For  the  first  time  a  sinister  note  rang  in  his  voice. 

"  I  shall  go  where  I  like,"  Cuckoo  answered,  and  this 
time  with  some  real  sturdiness  of  manner.  "It  ain't 
nothin'  to  you  where  I  go,  nor  what  I  do." 

'*  How  can  you  tell  that?  " 

She  laid  her  chin  in  the  upturned  palms  of  her  two 
hands,  planting  her  elbows  on  her  knees. 

"  How  can  it  be  ?  "  she  said.  "  I  'm  nothin*  to  you, 
nor  I  ain't  going  to  be  either." 

"That  's  what  you  say." 

"And  it's  God's  truth  too!"  she  cried  again  with 
violence,  as  the  sense  of  Valentine's  inflexible  power 
grew  in  her. 

"  I  'm  going  to  smoke  if  you  will  allow  me,"  Valen- 
tine said. 

Slowly  he  drew  out  and  lit  a  cigarette,  Cuckoo  neither 
refusing  nor  permitting  it.  With  protruding  lips  he 
threw  the  light  smoke  round  him.  Then  speaking 
through  it  he  said : 

"  Tell  me  why  you  go  to  Harley  Street." 

"I  ain't  goin'  to  talk  to  you." 

"Tell  me  why.  It  lies  out  of  your  beat;  it  's  a  re- 
spectable thoroughfare." 

The  words  were  said  to  sting.  Cuckoo  let  them  go 
by.  She  had  been  stung  too  often,  and  repetition  of 
cruelty  sometimes  kills  what  it  repeats.  She  set  her  lips 
to  silence,  with  a  look  of  obstinacy  not  impressive,  but 
merely  mulish  and  childish. 

"Well?  "  Valentine  said. 

She  made  no  answer.  He  did  not  seem  angry,  but 
continued : 

"You  find  few  fish  for  your  net  there,  I  imagine.  But 
perhaps  you  do  n't  go  for  fish.  What  was  the  name  you 
read  upon  the  door  while  I  watched  you?  " 

This  time  Cuckoo,  changing  her  mind,  as  she  often 
did,  with  all  the  swiftness  of  a  crude  nature,  answered 
him: 


288  FLAMES 

**  You  know  well  enough!  " 

"  It  was  Dr.  Levillier,  was  n't  it?  " 

She  nodded  her  head  silently. 

"Why  do  you  go  to  his  door?  What  do  you  want 
with  him?" 

Cuckoo's  quick  woman's  instinct  detected  a  suspicion 
of  something  that  was  like  anxiety  in  his  voice  as  he  said 
the  words.  In  an  instant  the  warm  impulse  that,  in  her 
silent  meditation,  had  led  her  to  buckle  on  her  armour 
and  to  think,  with  a  certain  courage,  that  she  was  to 
fight  one  day,  stirred  and  glowed  and  leaped  up,  an  im- 
pulse greater  than  herself.  The  fear  that  had  fallen  upon 
her  was  lessened,  for  she  felt  that  this  man,  too,  might, 
nay  did,  know  fear. 

"What  's  that  to  you?" 

She  turned  upon  him  boldly  with  the  question,  and  he 
knew  her  for  the  first  time  as  an  atagonist,  who  might 
actively  attack  as  well  as  passively  hate.  He  leaned 
forward,  and  looked  into  her  eyes  searchingly,  with  a 
sort  of  rapture,  of  anxiety,  too.  It  recalled  something 
to  Cuckoo.  She  tried  to  remember  what,  but  for  a  mo- 
ment could  not.  Then,  as  if  reassured,  he  resigned  his 
eager  and  nervous  posture  of  inquiry.  That  second 
movement  brought  the  light  that  Cuckoo's  puzzled  mind 
sought.  It  was  Julian  who  had  looked  first  into  her  eyes 
with  that  strange  watchfulness.  These  men  echoed  one 
another  in  that  glance  which  she  could  not  understand. 
What  they  sought  in  her  eyes  she  could  not  tell.  If  it 
were  the  same  thing  it  could  not  be  love.  And  it  seemed 
to  be  a  thing  that  they  feared  to  find. 

' '  Doctor  Levillier  is  a  great  friend  of  mine, ' '  Valentine 
said.  "He  is  a  famous  nerve-doctor.  Seeing  you  hov- 
ering about  his  door  led  me  to  suppose  you  might  be  ill, 
and  were  going  to  consult  him.     I  hope  you  are  not  ill." 

"Not  I!" 

" Because  he  is  away  from  home  at  present." 

"Oh!" 

"  Do  you  want  to  see  him?  " 

"  I  suppose  I  can  see  him,  like  any  one  else,  if  I  've  a 
mind  to." 

"Well!    He's  —  he  does  n't  see  quite  every  one.   His 


THE   GOSPEL   OF   INFLUENCE         2S9 

practice  is  only  among  the  richest  and  smartest  people 
in  town.  Some  one  else  might  answer  your  purpose  bet- 
ter." 

He  spoke  suavely,  but  the  words  he  said  cemented 
Cuckoo's  previously  vague  thought  of  trying,  perhaps,  to 
see  Doctor  Levillier  into  a  sudden,  strong  determination. 
She  divined  that,  for  some  reason,  Valentine  was  anxious 
that  she  should  not  see  him.  That  was  enough.  She 
would,  at  whatever  cost,  make  his  acquaintance. 

"I  '11  see  him  if  I  like,"  she  said  hastily,  lost  to  any 
appreciation  of  wisdom,  through  the  desire  of  aiming  an 
instant  blow  at  Valentine. 

"  Of  course!     Why  not?  "  was  his  reply. 

"You  do  n't  want  me  to.  I  can  see  that,"  she  went 
on,  still  more  unadvisedly.  "  You  need  n't  think  as  you 
can  get  over  me  so  easily." 

Valentine's  smile  showed  a  certain  contempt  that 
angered  her. 

"  I  know  you,"  she  cried. 

"  Do  you?  "  he  said.  "  I  wonder  if  you  would  like  to 
know  me?     Do  you  remember  Marr?  " 

The  lady  of  the  feathers  turned  cold. 

"Marr!  "  she  faltered;   "what  of  him?" 

"You  have  not  forgotten  him." 

"He's  dead!" 

A  pause. 

"He's  dead,  I  say." 

"Exactly!  As  dead  as  a  strong  man  who  has  lived 
long  in  the  world  ever  can  be." 

"What  d' you  mean?  I  say  he's  dead  and  buried 
and  done  with."     Her  voice  was  rather  noisy  and  shrill. 

"That 's  just  where  you  make  a  mistake,"  Valentine 
said  quite  gravely,  rather  like  a  philosopher  about  to 
embark  upon  an  argument.  "  He  is  not  done  with.  Sup- 
pose you  fear  a  man,  you  hate  him,  you  kill  him,  you 
put  him  under  the  ground,  you  have  not  done  with  him." 

"I  didn't  kill  him!  I  didn't,  I  did  n't!  "  Cuckoo 
cried  out,  shrilly,  half  rising  from  the  sofa.  A  wild  sus- 
picion suddenly  came  over  her  that  Valentine  was  pursu- 
ing her  as  an  avenger  of  blood,  under  the  mistaken  idea 
that  she  had  done  Marr  to  death  in  the  night. 


290  FLAMES 

"Hush!  I  know  that.  He  died  naturally,  as  a  doc- 
tor would  say,  and  he  has  been  buried ;  and  by  now 
probably  he  is  a  shell  that  can  only  contain  the  darkness 
of  his  grave.  Yet,  for  all  that,  he  's  not  done  with, 
Miss  Bright." 

"He  is!  he  is!  "  she  persisted. 

The  mention  of  Marr  always  woke  terror  in  her.  She 
sat,  her  eyes  fixed  on  Valentine,  her  memory  fixed  on 
Marr.  Perhaps  for  this  reason  what  her  memory  saw 
and  what  her  eyes  saw  seemed  gradually  to  float  together, 
and  fuse  and  mingle,  till  eyes  and  memory  mingled,  too, 
into  one  sense,  observant  of  one  being  only,  neither 
wholly  Marr  nor  wholly  Valentine,  but  both  in  one.  She 
had  linked  them  together  vaguely  before,  but  never  as 
now.  Yet  even  now  the  clouds  were  floating  round  her 
and  the  vapours.  She  might  think  she  saw,  but  she 
could  not  understand,  and  what  she  saw  was  rather  a 
phantom  standing  in  a  land  of  mirage  than  a  man  stand- 
ing in  the  world  of  men. 

*'  Some  day,  perhaps,  I  will  prove  to  you  that  he  is 
not,"  Valentine  said. 

"Eh,  how?" 

She  had  lost  all  self-consciousness  now,  and  in  her 
eagerness  of  fear,  wonder,and  curiosity  seemed  tormented 
by  the  veil  of  yellow  hair  that  was  flopping  in  frizzy 
strands  round  her  face  and  over  her  eyes.  She  seized  it 
in  her  two  hands,  and  with  a  few  shooting  gestures,  in 
and  out,  wound  it  into  a  dishevelled  lump,  which  she 
stuck  to  the  back  of  her  head  with  two  or  three  pins. 
All  the  time  she  was  looking  at  Valentine  for  an  answer 
to  her  question. 

"  Perhaps  I  do  n't  know  how  yet." 

"  Yes,  you  do,  though.  I  can  see  you  do.  What  have 
you  got  to  do  with  him,  with  Marr?  " 

'*  I  never  said  I  had  anything  to  do  with  him." 

"Ah!  but  you  have.     I  always  knew  it!" 

"Many  men  are  linked  together  by  thin,  perhaps  in- 
visible threads,  impalpable  and  impossible  to  define." 

The  lady  of  the  feathers  was  out  of  her  depth  in  this 
sentence,  so  she  only  tossed  her  head  and  murmured : 

"  Oh,  I  dessay !  "  with  an  effort  after  contempt. 


THE    GOSPEL   OF   INFLUENCE  391 

But  Valentine's  mood  seemed  to  change.  An  ab- 
stracted gaiety  stole  over  him.  If  it  was  simulated,  the 
simulation  was  very  perfect  and  complete.  Sitting  back 
in  his  chair,  the  cigarette  smoke  curling  lightly  round 
him,  his  large  blue  eyes  glancing  gravely  now  at  Cuckoo 
crumpled  up  on  the  horsehair  sofa,  now  meditatively  at 
some  object  in  the  little  room,  or  at  the  ceiling,  he  spoke 
in  a  low,  clear,  level  voice,  as  if  uttering  his  thoughts 
aloud,  careless  or  oblivious  of  any  listener. 

*'  Every  man  who  lives,  and  who  has  a  personality, 
has  something  to  do  with  many  men  whom  he  has  never 
seen,  whom  he  will  never  see.  Messengers  go  from  him 
as  carrier-pigeons  go  from  a  ship.  He  may  live  alone, 
as  a  ship  is  alone  in  mid-ocean,  but  the  messengers  are 
winged,  and  their  wings  are  strong.  They  fly  high  and 
they  fly  far,  and  wherever  they  pause  and  rest,  that  man 
has  left  a  mark,  has  stamped  himself,  has  uttered  him- 
self, has  planted  a  seed  of  his  will.  Have  you  a  re- 
ligion? " 

Valentine  stopped  abruptly  after  uttering  this  ques- 
tion, and  waited  for  an  answer.  It  was  characteristic 
enough. 

"What?  "  said  the  lady  of  the  feathers,  staring  wide- 
eyed. 

"  I  say,  have  you  a  religion?  " 

**  Not  I.     How  can  I  when  I  do  n't  go  to  no  church?  " 

**  That  is,  no  doubt,  a  convincing  proof  of  heathen- 
dom. And  yet  I  have  a  religion  that  never  leads  me  to 
a  church  door.  My  religion  is  will,  my  gospel  is  the 
gospel  of  influence,  and  my  god  is  power.  Will  binds 
the  world  into  a  net,  whose  strands  are  like  iron.  Will 
dies  if  it  is  weak,  but  if  it  is  strong  enough  it  becomes 
practically  immortal.  But,  though  it  lives  itself,  it  has 
the  power  to  kill  others.  It  can  murder  a  soul  in  a  man 
or  a  woman,  and  throw  it  into  the  grave  to  decay  and 
go  to  dust,  and  in  the  man  it  can  create  a  soul 
diametrically  opposite  to  the  corpse,  and  the  world  will 
say  the  man  is  the  same;  but  he  is  not  the  same.  He  is 
another  man,  Or  if  the  will  is  not  strong  enough  actu- 
ally to  kill  a  soul  " — at  this  point  Valentine  spoke  more 
slowly,  and  there  was  a  certain  note  of  uneasiness,  even 


292  FLAMES 

almost  of  agitation,  in  his  voice — "it  can  yet  expel  it 
from  the  body  in  which  it  resides,  and  drive  it,  like  a 
new  Ishmael,  into  the  desert,  where  it  must  hover,  use- 
less, hopeless,  degraded,  and  naked,  because  it  has  no 
body  to  work  in.  Yes!  yes!  that  must  be  so!  The  soul 
can  have  no  power  divorced  from  the  body !  none !  none !  ' ' 

He  got  up  from  his  chair,  and  began  to  pace  the  little 
room.  Cuckoo  watched  him  as  a  child  might  watch  a 
wild  animal  in  its  cage.  His  face  was  hard  and  thin  with 
deep  thought,  and  hers  was  contorted  under  her  yellow 
hair — contorted  in  a  frantic  effort  to  grasp  and  to  under- 
stand what  he  was  saying;  for,  stupid,  ignorant  as  the 
lady  of  the  feathers  was,  she  had  a  sharp  demon  in  her 
that  often  told  her  the  truth,  and  this  demon  whispered 
now  in  her  ear: 

"  Listen,  and  you  may  learn  things  that  you  long  to 
know!  " 

And  she  listened  motionless,  her  eyes  bright  and 
eager,  her  lips  shut  together,  her  slim  body  a-quiver 
with  intensity,  mental  and  physical. 

"  How  can  it?  "  Valentine  went  on.  "What  is  a  soul 
without  a  body?  You  cannot  see  it.  You  cannot  hear 
it,  and  if  you  think  you  can,  that  is  a  vile  trick  of  the 
mind,  an  hallucination.  For  if  one  man  can  see  it,  why 
not  another?     Here,  let  me  look  into  your  eyes  again." 

As  he  said  the  last  words,  he  stopped  opposite  to 
Cuckoo,  suddenly  caught  her  chin  in  his  two  hands, 
which  felt  hard  and  cold,  and  forcibly  pushed  up  her  face 
towards  his.  She  was  terrified,  beginning  now  to  think 
him  mad,  and  to  fear  personal  injury.  Gazing  hard  and 
furtively  into  her  eyes,  he  said: 

"  No;  it 's  a  lie!  It  is  not  there.  It  never  was!  It  is 
dead  and  finished  with,  and  I  won't  fear  it." 

As  if  struck  by  the  fatigue  of  some  sudden  reaction, 
he  sank  down  again  into  his  chair,  and  went  on  with  his 
apparently  fantastic  monologue : 

"  And  if  it  was  ever  alive,  what  could  it  do?  A  soul 
can't  work,  except  through  a  body;  it  must  fasten  on  a 
body,  and  bend  the  body  to  its  will  —  man  is  such  a 
creature  that  he  can  only  be  influenced  through  flesh  and 
blood,  nerves,   sinews,  eyes,  things  he  can  see,  things 


THE    GOSPEL   OF   INFLUENCE  293 

that  he  can  hear.  He  is  so  grovelling  that  nothing  more 
delicate  than  these  really  appeals  to  him." 

Again,  and  this  time  with  less  abstraction,  and  with  a 
sort  of  contemptuous  humour,  he  turned  to  the  lady  of 
the  feathers,  and  continued,  as  if  once  more  aware  of 
her  presence: 

"  Are  you  imbibing  my  gospel,  the  gospel  of  will  and 
of  influence?  I  see  you  are  by  your  pretty  attitude  and 
by  the  engaging  face  you  are  making  at  me.  Well,  do  n't 
get  it  wrong.  A  gospel  gone  wrong  in  a  mind  is  danger- 
ous, and  worse  than  no  gospel  at  all.  If  you  get  this 
gospel  wrong  you  may  become  conceited,  and  fancy 
yourself  possessed  of  a  power  which  you  have  n't  a  no- 
tion of.  To  use  will  in  any  really  affective  way,  you 
must  train  your  body,  and  take  care  of  it,  not  ruin  it, 
and  let  it  run  to  seed,  or  grow  disfigured,  or  a  ghastly 
tell-tale,  a  truth-teller,  a  town-crier  with  a  big  bell  going 
about  and  calling  aloud  all  the  silly  or  criminal  things 
you  do.  Now  you  have  forgotten  this,  or  perhaps  you 
never  knew  it,  and  so  will  could  not  work  in  you;  not 
even,  I  believe,  a  malign  will  to  do  mischief.  You  have 
thrown  your  body  to  the  wolves,  and  whoever  looks  upon 
you  must  see  the  marks  of  their  teeth." 

It  was  evident  that  he  gloated  on  this  idea  that  the 
body  of  the  lady  of  the  feathers  was  forever  useless  for 
good,  and  even  powerless  to  do  much  effective  evil.  He 
seemed  to  revel  in  the  notion  that  she  was  simply  a  thing 
powerless,  negative,  and  totally  vain. 

*'I  was  mad  ever  to  imagine  the  contrary,"  he  said. 
Then,  glancing  away  from  personality,  he  exclaimed 
with  more  energy: 

"But  sometimes  a  will  is  so  great,  so  trained,  so 
watchful  of  opportunities,  so  acute  and  ready,  that,  in- 
stead of  passing  away  practically  on  the  passing  away  of 
the  body  in  which  it  has  been  born  and  has  lived,  and 
merely  living  and  working  through  the  emanations  of  it- 
self that  have  clung  to  men  and  women  in  many  different 
places,  instead  —  in  fact — of  being  diffused  —  you  un- 
derstand me?  "  he  broke  out,  with  an  obvious  delight  in 
the  grossness  of  her  ignorance  and  the  denseness  of  her 
bewilderment  and  misunderstanding  of  him — **  which  is  a 


294  FLAMES 

sort  of  death,  it  seizes,  whole,  as  a  body,  with  ail  the  mem- 
bers sound,  upon  another  home.  It  commits,  in  effect,  a 
great  act  of  brigandage.  It  lives  on  complete,  powerful 
—  even  more  powerful  than  ever  before,  because  to  all 
its  original  powers  it  adds  a  glory  of  deception,  and  is  a 
living  lie.     If  only  you  could  understand  me!  " 

Suddenly  he  burst  into  a  peal  of  laughter  that  was  a 
full  stop  to  his  philosophy.  His  cigarette  had  gone  out. 
He  threw  it  into  the  grate  and  stretched  out  his  arms, 
still  laughing.  And  Cuckoo  gazing  at  him,  as  if  fasci- 
nated, said  silently  to  herself,  "If  only  I  could!  " 

For  she  felt  as  if  Valentine  were  telling  her  a  great 
secret,  secure  in  the  hideous  knowledge  that,  though  she 
heard  it,  it  must  remain  a  secret  from  her  on  account  of 
her  ignorance  and  of  her  stupidity.  There  was  some- 
thing in  that  feeling  peculiarly  maddening,  yet  Cuckoo 
displayed  no  irritation.  The  sharp  little  demon  at  her 
elbow  whispered  to  her  to  be  silent,  told  her  that  she 
might  learn,  might  yet  understand,  if  she  would  play  a 
part,  and  be  no  more  the  wildcat,  the  foolishly  impul- 
sive lady  of  the  feathers.  Valentine  struck  his  hand 
upon  the  table,  and  repeated: 

'*  Why  —  why  can't  you  understand?  " 

The  piquancy  of  the  situation  evidently  delighted  his 
mind  and  his  sense  of  mischief.  He  enjoyed  playing  the 
philosopher  to  a  fool;  and  the  more  the  fool  became  a 
fool,  the  higher  soared  his  philosophy  and  his  apprecia- 
tion of  it.  There  is  always  something  paradoxical  in 
wisdom  instructing  folly,  for,  after  all,  folly  can  never 
really  learn,  can  never  really  understand.  Valentine 
hugged  that  thought. 

"Go  on,"  the  lady  of  the  feathers  said,  apparently  in 
gaping  wonderment. 

"  Why?  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  you  are  interested? " 

"  I  'm  listenin' !     It  sounds  wonderful!  " 

**  It  is  wonderful!  "  Valentine  cried.  "  Every  living 
He  is  wonderful.  But  you  do  n't  know  yet  much  about 
will.  My  gospel  is  full  of  secrets  and  of  subtleties,  and 
only  a  few  people  are  beginning  to  guess  at  its  far-reach- 
ing power,  and  to  aim  at  learning  its  truths  and  sound- 
ing its  depths.     And  many  unbelievers  play  with  it,  and 


THE    GOSPEL    OF   INFLUENCE         295 

never  know  that  they  are  playing  with  fire.  A  man  did 
this  once.      Shall  I  tell  you  about  him?  " 

"Yes!"  said  Cuckoo. 

And  her  soul  cried  to  the  darkness  in  which  she  ima- 
gined some  vague  power  to  dwell;  cried  aloud  for  under- 
standing. This  silent  cry  was  so  intense  that  she  lay 
back  upon  the  hard  sofa,  almost  exhausted,  and  as  she 
lay  there,  something  hot,  like  fire,  seemed  to  make  its 
nest  in  her  heart,  and  to  flame  there,  and  to  be  alive,  as 
a  flame  is  alive,  and  to  speak  to  her,  but  not  aloud,  as  a 
flame  speaks  in  the  coals  to  the  imagination  of  the 
watcher  by  the  hearth.  In  that  moment  the  lady  of  the 
feathers  felt  as  if  she  were  conscious  of  a  new  compan- 
ion, a  companion  full  of  some  intensity  towards  her, 
some  anxiety  about  her,  anxious  and  brilliant  as  a  flame 
is,  vital,  keen,  blazing,  intense.  Although  she  could  not 
define  her  sensation  thus,  that  lack  of  analytical  power 
could  not  deprive  her  of  it.  She  knew  that  her  vision 
became  clearer,  that  her  mind  became  brighter,  that  a 
light  illumined  her,  that  she  was,  for  the  moment,  greater 
than  herself.  But  Valentine  did  not  know  it.  He  looked 
towards  the  sofa  and  saw  spread  upon  it  a  thin,  painted, 
haggard  young  creature  curled  into  a  position  at  once 
passionate,  languid, and  merely  awkward,  with  relentless, 
thickly  tangled  hair,  staring  eyes,  and  half-opened  lips, 
glowering  in  rouged  stupidity  and  a  coarseness  of  the 
gutter.  He  was  a  philosopher,  with  a  beauty  of  the 
stars  and  of  snows,  with  a  refinement,  white  in  its  bril- 
liance. She  was  an  image  of  Regent  Street,  a  ghastly 
idol  of  the  town;  and  he  was  telling  her  strange  things 
that  she  could  never  comprehend,  in  a  jargon  that  was  to 
her  as  Greek  or  as  Hebrew.  It  was  too  absurd.  Yet  he 
loved  to  tell  her,  and  he  could  scarcely  tell  why  he 
loved  it. 

"  Go  on,"  said  the  lady  of  the  feathers. 

"This  man,"  Valentine  said,  assuming  a  devout 
earnestness  to  trick  her  more,  and  watching  for  the  puz- 
zled expression  to  grow  and  to  deepen  in  her  eyes, — "this 
man  had  a  holy  nature,  or  I  will  say  an  unalterable  will 
to  do  only  things  pure,  reserved,  refined — things  that 
could  not  lead  his  body  into  difficulties,  or  his  mind  into 


296  FLAMES 

quagmires.  He  was  a  saint  without  a  religion.  That  is 
a  possibility,  I  assure  you;  for  a  will  can  be  amaz- 
ingly independent.  He  had  the  peculiar  grace  that  is 
said  to  belong  to  angels,  a  definite  repugnance  to  sin. 
I  know  you  understand  me." 

She  nodded  bluntly. 

"I  know — he  couldn't  go  wrong,  if  it  was  ever  so," 
she  ejaculated. 

"  If  it  was  ever  so — as  the  housemaids  say — you  put  the 
position  of  this  man  in  a  nutshell,  and  if  this  strange  will  of 
his  had  never  relented,  the  transformation  I  am  going  to 
describe,  or — "  he  paused  for  a  moment  as  if  in  doubt, 
then  continued — "or  rather  to  hint  at,  would  never 
have  taken  place.  But  he  grew  dissatisfied  with  his 
will.  It  bored  him  ever  so  little.  He  fancied  he  would 
like  to  change  it,  and  to  substitute  for  it  the  will  of  the 
world.  And  the  will  of  the  world,  as  you  know  well,  my 
lady  of  the  feathers,  is  to  sin.  For  some  time  he  longed, 
vaguely  enough,  to  be  different,  to  be,  in  fact,  lower 
down  in  the  scale  than  he  was.  But  his  longing  to  be 
able  to  desire  sin  did  not  lead  him  to  desire  it  actually. 
One  can  force  one's  self  to  do  a  thing,  you  see,  but  one 
cannot  force  one's  self  to  wish  to  do  it,  or  to  enjoy  doing 
it.  And  this  man,  being  a  selfish  saint — saints  are  very 
often  very  selfish — would  not  sin  without  desiring  it. 
So  it  seemed  that  he  must  remain  forever  as  he  was,  a 
human  piece  of  flawless  porcelain,  wishing  to  be  cracked 
and  common  delft." 

"Whatever  did  he  wish  it  for?  "  asked  Cuckoo,  with 
the  surprise  of  a  zany. 

"Who  can  tell  why  one  man  wishes  for  one  thing, 
another  for  another?  That,  too,  is  a  mystery.  The 
point  is,  that  he  did  wish  it,  and  that  he  did  something 
more." 

"  What  was  that,  eh?  " 

"  He  deliberately  tried  to  weaken  and  to  deface  his 
will;  to  alter  it.  And  he  chose  curious  means,  acting 
under  suggestion  from  another  will  or  influence  that  was 
more  powerful  than  his  own,  because  it  was  utterly  self- 
satisfied  and  desired  only  to  be  what  it  was.  I  do  n't 
think  I  will  tell   you  what   the   means  were.     But  his 


THE   GOSPEL   OF   INFLUENCE  297 

original  dissatisfaction  witli  his  own  goodness  was  the 
weapon  that  brought  about  his  own  destruction.  His 
will  did  not  change,  as  he  believed;  but  what  do  you 
think  actually  happened  to  it?  I  will  tell  you.  It  was 
expelled  from  his  body.  He  lost  it  forever.  He  lost, 
in  fact,  his  identity.  For  will  is  personality,  soul,  the 
ego,  the  man  himself.  And  this  soul,  if  you  choose  to 
call  it  so,  was  driven  into  the  air.  It  went  away  in  the 
darkness,  like  a  bird.     Do  you  see?  " 

He  waved  his  hand  upward,  and  lifted  his  eyes,  as  if 
following  with  them  the  flight  that  he  described. 

"It  flew  away!  " 

"Where  did  it  go?  "  ejaculated  Cuckoo. 

Valentine  seemed  suddenly  to  become  fully  aware  of 
the  depth  of  her  interest. 

"Ah!  even  you  are  fascinated  by  my  gospel,  you  who 
cannot  understand  it,"  he  said.  "  But  I  cannot  tell  you 
where  it  went.     I  too  have  wondered." 

He  knit  his  brows  rather  moodily  over  this  question 
of  location.  "I  too  have  wondered.  But  I  imagine 
that  it  died;  that  it  ceased  to  be.  Divorced  from  the 
body  that  was  its  home,  degraded  by  dissatisfaction 
with  itself,  of  what  use  could  it  be  to  any  one?  Even  if 
it  still  continues  to  be,  it  is  practically  dead,  for  it  can 
work  neither  harm  nor  good  to  any  one,  and  the  thing 
that  cannot  be  good  or  evil,  or  turn  others  towards  the 
one  or  the  other,  is  dead.  It  is  no  more  a  will.  It  is 
no  more  an  influence.  It  is  a  heart  without  a  pulse  in  it; 
in  fact,  it  is  nothing." 

A  sort  of  joy  had  leapt  into  his  face  as  he  dwelt  on 
this  idea  of  nothingness,  and  he  added: 

"It  is  something  like  your  soul,  my  lady  of  the  feath- 
ers.    Do  you  hear  me?  " 

"Yes.     I  hear!" 

"  But  the  will  that  ousted  it  gained  in  power  by  that 
triumph.  Totally  self-satisfied,  desirous  of  being  only 
that  which  it  is,  having  no  enemy  of  yearning  disappoint- 
ment with  itself  in  its  camp,  it  can  do  what  will  never 
did  before.  It  can  lead  captive  the  soul  that  was  for- 
merly the  captive  of  the  soul  that  it  drove  away  to  die. 
Like   an  enemy  it  has  seized  its  opponent's  camp,  and 


298  FLAMES 

the  slave  dwelling  in  that  camp  is  now  its  slave  for- 
ever." 

As  Valentine  spoke  he  seemed  to  become  almost 
intoxicated  with  the  thoughts  conjured  up  by  his  own 
words.  His  blue  eyes  blazed  with  a  fury  of  shining  ex- 
citement.    His  white  cheeks  were  suffused  with  blood. 

*'  I  have  made  myself,  my  will,  a  god!  "  he  exclaimed 
passionately. 

At  the  words  the  lady  of  the  feathers  moved  suddenly 
forward  on  the  sofa. 

"What — you!"  she  said. 

The  last  word  was  uttered  with  an  intensity  that  could 
surely  only  spring  from  something  near  akin  to  compre- 
hension, if  not  from  actual  comprehension  itself.  It 
certainly  startled  Valentine,  or  seemed  to  startle  him. 
His  face  showed  an  amazement  like  the  amazement  of 
a  man  raving  to  an  image  of  wood,  to  whom,  abruptly, 
the  wood  speaks  with  a  tongue. 

"What  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  said,  and  his  voice  faltered 
from  its  note  of  triumph  and  of  exultation. 

Cuckoo  resumed  her  former  position. 

"Only  was  you  the  will,  or  the  man,  or  whatever 
it  all  is  ? "  she  replied  in  the  voice  of  one  hopelessly 
muddled. 

Valentine  was  reassured  as  to  her  stupidity. 

"  That  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  story,"  he  said. 

"  There  was  two  of  them,  was  there  ?  "  she  persisted, 
but  still  with  the  accent  of  a  hopeless  dullard. 

"Oh  yes.  One  will  must  always  work  upon  another, 
or  else  there  could  be  no  story  worth  the  telling." 

"Oh,  I  see;  that  's  it." 

Valentine  again  broke  into  laughter. 

"You  see,  do  you?"  he  said.  "You  see  that,  but 
do  you  see  the  truth  of  what  I  told  you  before  about  the 
connection  of  the  will  with  the  body  ?  Do  you  see  why 
you  have  no  power  now,  can  never  have  power  again  ? 
Do  you  understand  that  the  wreck  of  your  body  inevi- 
tably causes  the  wreck  of  your  will,  so  that  it  really  dies 
and  ceases,  because  it  can  no  more  influence  others  ?  Do 
you  understand  that  ?  I  '11  make  you  understand  it  now. 
Come  here." 


THE    GOSPEL   OF   INFLUENCE  299 

He  got  up  from  his  chair  and  seized  her  two  hands  in 
his,  dragging  her  almost  violently  up  from  the  sofa. 
Her  fear  of  him,  always  lurking  near,  came  upon  her 
with  a  rush  at  the  contact  of  his  hands,  and  she  hung 
back,  moved  by  an  irresistible  repulsion.  The  slight 
and  momentary  struggle  between  them  caused  her  hair, 
carelessly  turned  up  and  loosely  pinned,  to  come  down. 
It  fell  all  round  her  in  a  loose  shock  of  unnatural  colour. 
Valentine's  hands  were  strong,  and  Cuckoo  soon  felt  that 
resistance  was  useless.  She  let  her  body  yield,  and  he  drew 
her  in  front  of  the  glass  that  stood  over  the  mantelpiece. 
Pushing  back  the  table  behind  them,  he  made  her  stand 
still  in  the  unwinking  glare  of  the  three  gas-jets,  which 
she  had  herself  turned  up  earlier  in  the  evening. 

"Look  there!"  he  cried;  "look  at  yourself  well! 
How  can  you  have  power  over  anybody?  " 

Their  two  faces,  set  close  together  as  in  a  frame, 
stared  at  them  from  the  mirror,  and  Cuckoo  —  forced  to 
obedience  —  examined  them  as  if  indeed  they  were  a 
picture.  She  saw  the  man's  face,  fair,  beautiful,  refined, 
triumphant,  full  of  the  courage  that  is  based  upon  expe- 
rience of  itself  and  of  its  deeds  and  possibilities,  full  of 
a  strange  excitement  that  filled  the  face  with  amazingly 
vivid  expression.  She  saw  the  bright  blue  eyes  gazing 
at  her,  the  red  lips  of  the  mouth  curved  in  a  smile. 
There  was  health  in  the  face  as  well  as  thought.  And 
there  was  power,  which  is  greater  than  health,  more  beau- 
tiful even  than  beauty.  And  then  she  turned  her  eyes 
to  the  face's  companion.  Thin,  sharp,  faded,  it  met  her 
eyes,  half-shrouded  in  the  thick,  tumbled  hair  that  shone 
in  the  mirror  with  the  peculiar  frigid  glare  that  can  only  be 
imparted  by  a  chemical  dye,  and  can  never  be  simulated 
by  nature.  One  cheek  was  chalk-white.  The  other, 
which  had  been  pressed  against  the  horsehair  of  the  sofa, 
showed  a  harsh,  scarlet  patch.  All  the  varying  haggard 
expressions  of  the  world  seemed  crowding  in  the  eyes  of 
this  scarecrow,  and  peering  beneath  the  thickly  black- 
ened eyelashes  that  struck  a  violent  discord  against  the 
yellow  hair.  The  thin  lips  of  the  mouth  were  pressed 
together  in  an  expression  of  pain,  fear,  and  weariness. 
Shadows  slept  under  the  eyes  where  the  face  had  fallen 


300  FLAMES 

into  hollows.  To-night  there  seemed  no  vestige  of 
prettiness  in  those  peaked  features.  Nothing  of  health, 
youth,  gaiety,  or  even  girlhood,  was  written  in  them,  but 
only  a  terrible,  a  brutal  record  of  spoliation  and  of 
wreckage,  of  plunder,  and  of  despair.  And  the  gaslight, 
striking  the  flat  surface  of  the  mirror,  made  the  record 
glitter  with  a  thin,  cheap  sparkle,  like  the  tinsel  trap- 
pings of  the  life  whose  story  the  mirror  revealed  in  its 
reflection. 

How,  indeed,  could  such  a  creature  have  power  over 
fellow  man  or  woman  for  good  or  for  evil  ?  If  weakness 
can  be  written  without  words,  it  seemed  written  in  that 
wasted  countenance,  which  Cuckoo  examined  with  a 
creeping  horror  that  numbed  her  like  frost.  As  she  did 
so,  Valentine  was  watching  the  ungraciousness  of  her 
face  in  the  glass  deepen  and  glide,  moment  by  moment, 
into  greater  ugliness,  greater  degradation.  And  as  the 
little  light  there  had  ever  been  behind  those  unquiet  eyes 
faded  gradually  away,  in  his  reflected  eyes  the  light 
leaped  up  into  fuller  glare,  sparkling  to  unbridled  tri- 
umph. And  his  reflected  lips  smiled  more  defiantly,  until 
the  smile  was  no  longer  touched  merely  with  triumph, 
but  with  something  more  vehement  and  more  malign! 
Cuckoo  did  not  see  the  change.  She  saw  only  herself, 
and  her  heart  cried  and  wailed.  What  good  —  what  good 
to  love  Julian?  What  good  to  hate  Valentine?  What 
good  to  fight  for  the  man  she  loved  against  the  man  she 
loathed?  As  well  set  a  doll  to  move  its  tense  joints 
against  an  army,  or  a  scarecrow  to  defy  a  god !  Never 
before  had  she  realized  thoroughly  the  complete  tragedy 
of  her  life.  Hitherto  she  had  assisted  at  it  in  fragments, 
coming  in  for  a  scene  here,  a  scene  there.  Now  she  sat 
through  the  whole  of  the  five  acts,  and  the  only  thing 
she  missed  was  the  fall  of  the  curtain.  That  remained 
up.  But  why?  There  was — there  could  be — nothing 
more  to  come,  unless  a  dreary  recapitulation  of  such 
dreary  events  as  had  already  been  displayed.  Such  a 
cup  could  hold  no  wine  that  was  not  foul,  thick,  and 
poisonous.  And  she  had  known  herself  so  little  as  to 
imagine  that  she  could  really  love,  and  that  her  love 
might  fulfil  itself  in  protection  instead  of  sensual  gratifi-i 


THE    GOSPEL   OF   INFLUENCE  301 

cation.  Yes,  vaguely  she  had  believed  that.  She  had 
even  believed  that  she  could  put  on  armour  and  do  battle 
against  —  and  at  this  point  in  her  desperate  meditation 
the  lady  of  the  feathers  shifted  her  eyes  from  her  own 
face  mirrored  to  the  face  beside  it.  As  she  did  so,  a 
sudden  cry  escaped  from  her  lips.  For  a  moment  she 
thought  she  saw  the  face  of  the  dead  Marr,  and  the  hal- 
lucination was  so  vivid  that  when  it  was  gone  and  the 
mirror  once  more  revealed  the  face  of  Valentine,  Cuckoo 
had  no  thought  but  that  she  had  really  seen  Marr. 
She  turned  sharply  round  and  cast  a  glance  behind  her. 
Then: 

**  Did  you  see  him?  "  she  whispered  to  Valentine. 

"Whom?" 

"  Him — Marr!  He  's  not  dead;  he  's  here;  he  's  here, 
I  tell  you.     I  see  him  in  the  glass!  " 

She  shivered.  The  room  seemed  spinning  round  with 
her,  and  the  two  faces  danced  and  sprang  in  the  mirror, 
as  if  a  hand  shook  it  up  and  down,  from  side  to  side. 

"If  he  is  here,"  Valentine  said,  "it  is  not  in  the  way 
you  fancy.     Your  imagination  has  played  you  a  trick." 

"Didn't  you — did  n't  you  see  him?  Do  n't  you  see 
him  now? " 

"I  see  only  you  and  myself." 

As  if  for  a  joke  he  bent  his  head  and  peered  closely  at 
the  mirror,  like  a  man  endeavouring  to  discern  some  very 
pale  and  dim  reflection  there. 

"  No,  he  's — he  's  not  there!  "  he  murmured,  "  but — " 

With  a  harsh  exclamation  he  dashed  his  fist  against 
the  mirrored  face  of  the  lady  of  the  feathers.  The  glass 
cracked  and  broke  from  top  to  bottom.  Cuckoo  cried 
out.  \^alentine's  hand  had  blood  upon  it.  He  did  not 
seem  to  know  this,  and  swung  round  upon  her  with  an 
almost  sivage  fury. 

"Don't — don't,  for  God's  sake,"  she  cried,  fearing 
an  attack. 

But  he  made  no  movement  against  her.  On  the  con- 
trary, an  expression  of  relief  chased  the  anger  from  his 
lips  and  eyes. 

"  Ah!  "  he  said,  "that's  a  lying  mirror!  It  lied  to 
you   and   to    me.     I   smashed  it.     Well,  I  '11   give   you 


302  FLAMES 

another  that  is  more  truthful,  and  more  ornamental 
too." 

"  What  was  it  you  saw?  "  she  murmured. 

"A  silly  vision,  power  where  there  is  only  weakness; 
a  will,  a  soul,  where  there  could  not  be  one!  " 

**  Eh?  was  it  that  you  struck  at?  " 

"  Why  do  you  ask?  "  he  said  with  sudden  suspicion. 

"You  struck  where  my  face  was,"  she  said  doggedly. 
**You  did,  you  did!" 

*'  Nonsense!  " 

"  It  ain't!     Why  did  you  do  it,  then?  " 

A  gleam  of  hope  had  shot  into  her  eyes,  lit  by  his 
weird  attack  upon  her  mirrored  image.  After  all, 
despite  his  sneers  at  her  faded  body,  his  gibes  at  her  faded 
and  decaying  soul,  he  struck  at  her  as  a  man  strikes  at 
the  thing  he  fears.  In  that  faded  soul  a  wild  hope  and 
courage  leaped  up,  banishing  all  the  sick  despair  which 
had  preceded  it.  The  lady  of  the  feathers  faced  Valen- 
tine with  a  deathless  resolution  of  glance  and  of  attitude. 

"You  've  been  telling  lies,"  she  said  "you've  been 
telling  me  damned  lies!  " 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"You  said  as  I  was — was  done  with." 

A  forced  smile  came  like  a  hissing  snake  on  Valen- 
tine's lips. 

"  So  you  are!  " 

"I  ain't!     I  ain't!     What 's  more,  you  know  it!  " 

"  You  have  broken  yourself  to  pieces  as  I  have  broken 
that  mirror!  " 

He  spoke  with  an  effort  after  scathing  contempt,  but 
she  detected  a  quiver  of  agitation  in  his  voice. 

"  If  I  have,  I  'II  break  you  yet!  "  she  cried. 

"  Me?     What  are  you  talking  about?  " 

"  You  know  well  enough." 

"  But  do  you  know — do  you  know  that  I — I  am  Marr?" 

He  almost  whispered  the  last  words!  A  chill  of  awe 
fell  over  the  lady  of  the  feathers.  She  did  not  under- 
stand what  he  meant,  and  yet  she  felt  as  if  he  spoke  the 
truth,  as  if  this  inexplicable  mystery  were  yet  indeed  no 
fiction,  no  phantasy,  but  stern  fact,  and  as  if,  strangely, 
she  had  at  the  back  of  her  mind  divined  it,  known  it 


THE   GOSPEL   OF   INFLUENCE  303 

when  she  first  knew  Valentine,  yet  only  realized  it  now 
that  he  himself  told  her.  She  did  not  speak.  She  only 
looked  at  him,  turning  white  slowly  as  she  looked. 

"I  am  Marr, "  he  repeated.  "Now  do  you  under- 
stand my  gospel?  Understand  it  if  you  can,  for  you  are  be- 
reft of  the  power  that  belongs  of  right  only  to  the  woman 
who  is  pure.  Long  ago,  perhaps,  you  might  have  fought 
me.  Who  knows,  you  might  even  have  conquered  me? 
But  you  have  thrown  yourself  to  the  wolves, and  they  have 
torn  you  till  you  are  only  a  skeleton.  And  how  can  a  soul 
dwell  in  a  skeleton?  Your  soul,  your  will,  is  as  useless  as 
that  vagrant  soul  of  Valentine,  which  I  expelled  into  the 
air  and  into  the  night.  It  can  do  nothing;  you  can  do 
nothing  either.  If  I  have  ever  feared  you,  and  hated 
you  because  I  feared  you,  I  have  fooled  myself.  I  have 
divined  your  thoughts.  I  have  known  your  enmity 
against  me,  and  your  love  — yours!  — for  Julian.  But  if 
the  soul  and  the  will  of  Valentine  could  not  save  Julian 
from  my  possession,  how  can  yours?  You  are  an  outcast 
of  the  streets!  Go  back  to  the  streets.  Live  in  them  I 
Die  in  them!  They  are  your  past,  your  present,  your 
future.  They  are  your  hell,  your  heaven.  They  are 
everything  to  you.  I  tell  you  that  you  are  as  much  of 
them  as  are  the  stones  of  the  pavement  that  the  feet  of 
such  women  as  you  tread  night  after  night.  And  what 
soul  can  a  street  thing  have?  What  can  be  the  will  of  a 
creature  who  gives  herself  to  every  man  who  beck- 
ons, and  who  follows  every  voice  that  calls?  I  feared 
you.  I  might  as  well  have  feared  a  shadow,  an  echo,  a 
sigh  of  the  wind,  or  the  fall  of  an  autumn  leaf.  I  might 
as  well  have  feared  that  personal  devil  whom  men  raise 
up  for  themselves  as  a  bogey.  Will  is  God!  Will  is  the 
Devil!  Will  is  everything!  And  you — you,  having 
tossed  your  will  away  —  are  nothing." 

He  had  spoken  gravely,  even  sombrely.  On  the  last 
word  he  was  gone. 

The  lady  of  the  feathers  stood  alone  in  the  ugly  little 
room,  and  heard  the  clock  of  the  great  church  close  by 
chime  the  hour  of  midnight.  Her  face  was  set  and 
white  under  its  rouge,  in  its  frame  of  disordered  canary- 
coloured  hair.     Her  eyes  were  clouded  with  perplexity, 


304  FLAMES 

with  horror,  and  with  awe.  Yet  she  looked  undaunted. 
Staring  at  the  door  through  which  the  man  men  still 
called  Valentine  Cresswell  had  vanished,  she  whispered: 

**  It  ain't  true!  It  ain't!  Nothin' does  for  a  woman ; 
not  when  she  loves  a  man!     Nothin'.     Nothin'. 

She  fell  down  against  the  hard  horsehair  sofa,  and 
stretched  her  arms  upon  it,  and  laid  her  head  against 
them,  as  if  she  prayed. 


BOOK  IV— DOCTOR  LEVILLIER 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  LADY  VISITS  DOCTOR  LEVILLIER 

The  Russian  Grand  Duke,  whose  malady  was  mainly 
composed  of  two  ingredients,  unlimited  wealth  and 
almost  unlimited  power,  was  slow  in  recovering,  and 
slower  still  in  making  up  his  mind  to  part  with  the  little 
nerve-doctor  whom  he  had  summoned  from  England, 
And  so  London  was  beginning  to  fall  into  its  misty 
autumn  mood  before  Doctor  Levillier  was  once  more 
established  in  Harley  Street.  He  had  heard  occasion- 
ally from  both  Valentine  and  Julian  during  his  long 
absence,  but  their  letters  had  not  communicated  much, 
and  once  or  twice  when  he,  in  replying  to  them,  had  put 
one  or  two  friendly  questions  as  to  their  doings,  those 
questions  had  remained  unanswered.  The  doctor  had 
been  particularly  reluctant  to  leave  England  at  the  time 
when  the  Grand  Duke's  summons  reached  him,  as  his 
interest  and  curiosity  about  Valentine  had  just  been 
keenly  and  thoroughly  roused.  But  fate  fought  for  the 
moment  against  his  curiosity.  It  remained  entirely  un- 
gratified.  He  had  not  once  seen  Valentine  since  the 
afternoon  in  Victoria  Street,  when  the  lamentation  of 
that  thoroughfare's  saint  had  struck  consternation  into 
the  hearts  of  musical  sinners.  Nor  had  the  doctor  met 
any  one  who  could  give  him  news  of  the  two  youths  over 
whose  welfare  his  soul  had  learned  to  watch.  Now, 
when  he  returned  to  London,  he  found  that  both  Val- 
entine and  Julian  were  abroad.  Only  Rip,  left  in  charge 
of  Julian's  servant,  greeted  him  with  joy;  Rip,  whose 
conduct  had  given  the  first  strong  impulse  to  his  wonder 
and  doubt  about  Valentine. 

305 


3o6  FLAMES 

Doctor  Levillier  took  up  the  threads  of  his  long-for- 
saken practice,  and  gave  himself  to  his  work  while 
autumn  closed  round  London.  One  day  he  heard 
casually  from  a  patient  that  Valentine  and  Julian  had 
returned  to  town.  He  wondered  that  they  had  not  let 
him  know:  the  omission  seemed  curious  and  unfriendly. 

During  the  day  on  which  the  news  reached  him  he 
was,  as  usual,  busily  engaged  from  morning  till  evening 
in  the  reception  of  patients.  His  reputation  was  very 
great,  and  men  and  women  thronged  his  consulting- 
rooms.  Although  his  rule  was  that  nobody  could  ever 
gain  admission  to  him  without  an  appointment,  it  was  a 
rule  made  to  be  broken.  He  never  had  the  heart  to 
turn  any  one  from  his  door  in  distress,  and  so  it  fre- 
quently happened  that  his  working-day  was  prolonged  by 
the  admission  of  people  who  unexpectedly  intruded 
themselves  upon  him.  Great  ladies,  more  especially, 
often  came  to  him  on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  prompted 
to  seek  his  solace  by  sudden  attacks  of  the  nerves.  A 
lover  had  used  them  ill,  perhaps,  or  a  husband  had 
turned  upon  them  and  had  rent  a  long  dressmaker's  bill 
into  fragments,  without  paying  it  first.  Or  the  ennui  of 
an  exquisite  life  of  unbridled  pleasure  had  suddenly 
sprung  upon  them  like  a  grisly  spectre,  torn  their  hearts, 
shaken  them  into  tears.  Or — and  this  happened  often 
— a  fantastic  recognition  of  the  obvious  fact  that  even 
butterflies  must  die,  had  abruptly  started  into  their 
minds,  obtruding  a  skeleton  head  above  the  billowing 
chiffons,  rattling  its  bones  until  the  dismal  sound  outvied 
^ht.  frou-frou  of  silk,  the  burr  of  great  waving  fans,  the 
click  of  high  heels  from  Paris.  Then,  in  terror,  they 
drove  to  Doctor  Levillier's  door  and  begged  to  see  him, 
if  only  for  a  moment. 

There  was  no  doctor  in  London  so  universally  sought 
by  the  sane  lunatics  of  society  as  Dr.  Levillier.  He  was 
no  mad-doctor.  He  had  no  private  asylum.  He  had 
never  definitely  aimed  at  becoming  a  famous  specialist  in 
lunacy.  But  the  pretty  lunatics  came  to  him,  neverthe- 
less; the  lunatics  who  live  at  afternoon  parties,  till  the 
grave  yawns  at  their  feet,  and  they  must  go  down  the 
strange  ways  of  another  world,  teacup  in  hand,  scandal 


THE    LADY   VISITS    LEVILLIER        307 

still  fluttering  upon  their  ashy  lip ;  the  lunatics  who  live 
for  themselves,  until  their  eyes  are  hollow  as  tombs  and 
their  mouths  fall  in  from  selfishness,  and  their  cheeks 
are  a  greenish  white  from  satiety,  and  lust's  gratified 
flame  beacons  on  their  drawn  cheeks  and  along 
their  crawling  wrinkles;  the  lunatics  who  seek  to  be 
what  they  can  never  be,  the  beauties  of  this  world,  the 
great  Queens  of  the  Sun,  whose  gaze  shall  glorify,  whose 
smile  shall  crown  and  bless,  whose  touch  shall  call 
hearts  to  agony  and  to  worship,  whose  word  shall  take  a 
man  from  his  plough  and  send  him  out  to  win  renown,  or 
snatch  a  leader  from  his  ambition  and  set  him  creeping 
in  the  dust,  like  a  white  mouse  prisoned  by  a  scarlet 
silken  thread;  the  lunatics  who  dandle  religions  like 
dolls,  and  play  with  faiths  as  a  boy  plays  with  marbles, 
until  the  moment  comes  when  the  game  is  over,  and  the 
player  is  faced  by  the  terror  of  a  great  lesson ;  the  lunatics 
who  stare  away  their  days  behind  prancing  horses  in  the 
Park,  who  worship  in  the  sacred  groves  of  bonnets,  who 
burn  incense  to  rouged  and  powdered  fashions,  who  turn 
literature  into  a  "movement,"  and  art  into  a  cult,  and 
humanity  into  a  bogey,  and  love  into  an  adulterous  sen- 
sation; the  lunatics  who  think  that  to  "live"  is  only 
another  word  for  to  sin,  that  innocence  is  a  prison  and 
vice  liberty;  the  lunatics  who  fill  their  boudoirs  with 
false  gods,  and  cry  everlastingly,  "Baal,  hear  us!"  till 
the  fire  comes  down  from  heaven,  which  is  no  painted 
ceiling  presided  over  by  a  plaster  god.  These  came  to 
Doctor  Levillier  day  by  day,  overtaken  by  sad  moments, 
by  sudden,  dreary  crises  of  the  soul,  that  set  them  im- 
potently  wailing,  like  Job  among  the  potsherds.  Many 
of  them  did  not  "curse  God,"  only  because  they  did  not 
believe  in  Him. 

It  is  not  the  fashion  in  London  to  believe  in  God  just 
now. 

Dr.  Levillier  had  always,  since  he  was  a  youth,  walk- 
ing hospitals  and  searching  the  terror  of  life  for  all  its 
secrets,  felt  a  deep  care,  a  deep  solicitude,  for  each  duet, 
body  and  soul,  that  walked  the  world.  He  had  never 
set  them  apart,  never  lost  sight  of  one  in  turning  his 
gaze  upon  the  other.     This  fact,  no  doubt,  accounted 


3o8  FLAMES 

partially  for  the  fact  that  many  looked  upon  him  as  the 
greatest  nerve-doctor  in  London.  For  the  nervous  sys- 
tem is  surely  a  network  lacing  the  body  to  the  soul,  and 
vice  versa.  Every  liaison  has  its  connecting  links,  the 
links  that  have  brought  it  into  being.  One  lust  stretches 
forth  a  hook  and  finds  an  eye  in  another,  and  there  is 
union.  So  with  faiths,  with  longings,  with  fine  aspira- 
tions, with  sordid  grovellings.  There  is  ever  the  hook 
seeking  the  appropriate  eye.  The  body  has  a  hook,  the 
soul  an  eye.     They  meet  at  birth  and  part  only  at  death. 

Dr.  Levillierwas  constantly,  and  ignorantly,  entreated 
to  adjust  the  one  comfortably  in  the  other.  It  is  a  deli- 
cate business,  this  adjustment,  sometimes  an  impossible 
business.  Half  of  the  Harley  Street  patients  came  say- 
ing, "Make  me  well."  What  they  really  meant  was, 
"  Make  me  happy."  Yet  the  most  of  them  would  have 
resented  a  valuable  mixed  prescription,  advice  for  the 
hook,  and  advice  for  the  eye.  Such  prescriptions  had  to 
be  very  deftly,  sometimes  very  furtively,  made  up.  Often 
the  doctor  felt  an  intense  exhaustion  steal  over  him 
towards  the  close  of  day.  This  tremendous  and  eternal 
procession  passing  onwards  through  his  life,  filing  before 
him  like  a  march-past  of  sick  soldiers,  saluting  him  with 
cries,  and  with  questions,  and  with  entreaties;  this  never- 
ceasing  progress  fatigued  him.  There  were  moments 
when  he  longed  to  hide  his  face,  to  turn  away,  to  shut 
his  ears  to  the  murmuring  voices,  and  his  eyes  to  the 
pale,  expressive  faces,  to  put  his  great  profession  from 
him,  as  one  puts  a  beggar  into  the  night.  But  these 
were  only  moments,  and  they  passed  quickly.  And  the 
little  doctor  was  always  bitterly  ashamed  of  them,  as  a 
brave  man  is  ashamed  of  a  secret  tug  of  cowardice  at 
his  heart.  For  it  seemed  to  him  the  greatest  thing  in 
all  the  world  to  help  to  make  the  unhappy  rightly  happier. 

And  this  was,  and  had  always  been,  his  tireless  en- 
deavour. Upon  this  day  one  of  these  hated  moments  of 
mental  and  physical  exhaustion  had  come  upon  him,  and 
he  struggled  hard  against  his  enemy.  The  procession 
of  patients  had  been  long,  and  more  than  once  in  the 
tiny  interval  between  the  exit  of  one  and  the  entry  of 
another,  Dr.  Levillier  had  peeped  at  his  watch.     His  last 


THE    LADY   VISITS   LEVILLIER       309 

appointment  was  at  a  quarter  to  five,  then  he  would 
be  free,  and  he  said  to  himself  that  he  would  take  a 
cab  and  drive  down  to  Victoria  Street.  Valentine  was 
often  at  home  about  six.  The  doctor  put  aside  the  little 
devil  of  pride  that  whispered,  "You  have  been  badly 
treated,  "and  resolved  to  make  the  advance  to  this  friend, 
who  seemed  to  have  forgotten  him.  In  times  of  fatigue 
and  depression  he  had  often  sought  Valentine  in  order 
to  be  solaced  by  his  music.  But  this  solace  was  at  an 
end,  unless,  indeed,  the  strange  burden  of  musical  im- 
potence had  been  lifted  from  Valentine,  and  his  talent 
had  been  restored  to  him. 

The  last  patient  came  to  the  doctor's  door  punctually 
and  was  punctually  dismissed  as  the  clock  chimed  the 
quarter  of  an  hour  after  five.  The  last  prescription  was 
written.  The  doctor  drew  in  a  deep  breath  of  relief. 
He  touched  the  bell  and  his  servant  appeared. 

"There  is  no  one  waiting?"  he  asked. 

"No,  sir." 

"I  have  made  no  other  appointment  for  to-day,  and 
I  am  going  out  almost  immediately.  If  any  patients 
should  call  casually  tell  them  I  cannot  possibly  see  them 
to-day.  Ask  them  to  make  an  appointment.  But  I  can- 
not see  any  one  to-day  under  any  circumstances." 

"  Yes,  sir." 

Dr.  Levillier  took  his  way  upstairs,  made  a  careful 
toilet,  selected  from  his  absurd  array  of  boots  a  pair  per- 
fectly polished,  put  them  on,  took  his  hat  and  gloves, 
sighed  once  again  heavily,  almost  as  a  dog  sighs  prepara- 
tory to  its  sleep,  and  turned  to  go  downstairs.  He  forgot 
for  the  moment  that  he  was  prepared  to  watch  Valentine. 
Perhaps,  indeed,  his  long  period  of  absence  had  dulled 
in  his  memory  the  recollection  of  any  apparent  change 
in  his  friend.  For  at  this  moment  of  fatigue  he  only 
recalled  Valentine's  expression  of  purity  and  high-souled 
health,  and  the  atmosphere  of  lofty  serenity  in  which  he 
seemed  habitually  to  dwell.  The  doctor  wanted  relief. 
How  Valentine's  presence  would  refresh  him  after  this 
dreary  array  of  patients,  after  the  continuous  murmurs 
of  their  plaintive  voices!  As  he  opened  his  bedroom 
door  he  perceived  his  man-servant  mounting  the  stairs. 


3IO  FLAMES 

**Lawler,  I  can't  see  any  one,"  he  said,  more  hastily 
than  usual.  "  I  told  you  so  distinctly.  I  am  going  out 
immediately." 

The  man  paused.  He  had  been  with  the  doctor  for 
many  years,  and  both  adored  and  understood  him.  The 
doctor  looked  at  him. 

"  It  is  a  patient,  I  suppose?  "  he  asked. 

''Well,  sir,  I  can't  exactly  say." 

"A  lady?" 

"Yes,  sir.     At  least,  sir — well,  no,  sir." 

"What  do  you  mean?  " 

"A  female,  sir." 

"What  does  she  want?  " 

"To  see  you,  sir.  I  can't  get  her  to  go.  Tasked 
her  to,  sir;  then  I  told  her  to." 

"Well?" 

"  She  only  gave  me  this  and  said  she  'd  come  to  see 
you,  and  if  you  were  in  she  'd  wait." 

He  handed  a  card  to  his  master.  The  doctor  took  it 
and  read: 

"Cuckoo  Bright,  400  Marylebone  Road." 

The  words  conveyed  nothing  to  his  mind,  for  neither 
Julian  nor  Valentine  had  ever  talked  to  him  of  the  lady 
of  the  feathers. 

"Cuckoo  Bright,"  he  said.  "An  odd  name!  And 
an  odd  person,  I  suppose,  Lawler? " 

Lawler  pursed  his  lips  rather  primly. 

' '  Very  odd,  sir.     Not  at  all  a  usual  sort  of  patient,  sir. ' ' 

"  H'm.  Go  and  ask  her  if  she  comes  as  a  patient  or 
on  private  business." 

The  man  retreated  and  returned. 

"The — lady  says  she  's  ill  and  must  see  you,  sir,  if 
only  for  a  moment." 

This  was  Cuckoo's  ruse  to  get  into  the  house,  and 
was  based  upon  Julian's  long-ago  remark  that  the  doctor 
could  never  resist  helping  any  one  who  was  in  trouble. 
Standing  on  the  doorstep,  she  had  histrionically  simu- 
lated faintness  for  the  special  benefit  of  Lawler,  who  re- 
garded her  with  deep  suspicion. 

"I  suppose  I  must  see  her,"  the  doctor  said  with  a 
sigh.      "  Show  her  in,  Lawler." 


THE    LADY   VISITS    LEVILLIER        311 

Lawler  departed,  disapprovingly,  to  do  so,  and  after 
a  moment  the  doctor  followed  him.  He  walked  into 
his  consulting-room,  where  he  found  the  lady  of  the 
feathers  standing  by  the  writing  table.  The  autumn 
day  was  growing  dark,  and  the  street  was  full  of  deepen- 
ing mist.  Cuckoo  was  but  a  fantastic  shadow  in  the 
room.  Her  dress  rustled  with  an  uneasy  sound  as  the 
doctor  came  in.  His  first  act  was  to  turn  on  the  elec- 
tric light.  In  a  flash  the  rustling  shadow  was  converted 
into  substance.  Cuckoo  and  the  doctor  stood  face  to 
face,  and  Cuckoo's  tired  eyes  fastened  with  a  hungry, 
almost  a  wolfish,  scrutiny  upon  this  stranger.  She 
wanted  so  much  of  him.  The  look  was  so  full  of  intense 
meaning  that,  coming  in  a  flash  with  the  electric  flash,  it 
startled  the  doctor.  Yet  he  had  seen  something  like  it 
before  in  the  eyes  of  those  who  suspected  that  they 
carried  death  within  them,  and  came  to  ask  him  if  it  were 
true.  He  was  surprised,  too,  by  her  appearance.  The 
women  of  the  streets  did  not  come  to  him,  although  if 
they  had  been  able  to  read  the  writing  in  his  heart  many 
of  them  would  surely  have  come.  He  shook  hands  with 
Cuckoo,  told  her  to  sit  down,  and  sat  down  himself 
opposite  to  her. 

"What  is  the  matter?  Please  tell  me  your  symp- 
toms," he  said  gently. 

"  Eh? "  was  the  reply,  spoken  in  a  thin  and  high 
voice. 

"What  has  been  troubling  you?  " 

Cuckoo,  who  was  wholly  unaccustomed  to  answer  a 
doctor's  questions,  started  violently.  She  fancied  from 
his  words  that  he  had  divined  the  lie  she  had  told  when 
she  said  that  she  was  ill,  and  knew  that  she  came  for  a 
mental  reason.  Instinctively  she  connected  the  word 
"trouble"  with  the  heart,  in  a  way  that  was  oddly  and 
pathetically  girlish.  Acting  upon  this  impulse  she  ex- 
claimed: 

"  Then  you  know  as  I  ain't  ill?  " 

Doctor  Levillier  was  still  more  surprised.  Not  under- 
standing what  was  in  her  mind,  he  entirely  failed  to  keep 
pace  with  its  agility. 

"Why  do  you  come  to  me,  then?  "  he  asked. 


312  FLAMES 

**0h,"  she  returned,  with  a  quickly  gathering  hesita- 
tion, "I  thought  as  perhaps  you  knew." 

**I!     But  we  have  never  met  before. " 

The  doctor  bent  his  eyes  on  her  searchingly.  For  a 
moment  he  began  to  wonder  whether  his  visitor  was 
quite  right  in  her  head.  Cuckoo  shuffled  under  his  gaze. 
The  very  kindliness  of  his  face  and  gentleness  of  his 
voice  made  her  feel  hot  and  abashed.  A  prickly  sensa- 
tion ran  over  her  body  as  she  cleared  her  throat  and 
said,  monosyllabically: 

"No." 

The  doctor  waited. 

"What  is  it?  "  he  said  at  length.  "  Tell  me  why  you 
have  called.  If  you  are  not  ill,  what  is  it  you  want 
of  me?  " 

"You  '11  laugh,  p'r'aps. " 

"  Laugh?     Is  it  something  funny,  then?  " 

"Funny!     Not  it!  " 

The  sound  of  her  voice  seemed  to  give  her  some 
courage,  for  she  went  on  with  more  hardy  resolution : 

"Look  here,  you  can  see  what  I  am — oh  yes,  you  can 
— and  you  wonder  what  I  'm  doin'  here.  Well,  if  I  tell 
you,  will  you  promise  as  you  won't  laugh  at  me?  " 

This  was  Cuckoo's  way  of  delicately  sounding  the 
doctor's  depths.     She  thought  it  decidedly  subtle. 

"  Yes,  I  '11  promise  that,"  the  doctor  said. 

He  looked  at  her  faded  young  face  and  felt  no  incli- 
nation to  laugh. 

"Well,  then,"  Cuckoo  said,  more  excitedly,  "you 
know  Ju —  Mr,  Addison,  don't  you?  " 

The  doctor  began  to  see  a  ray  of  light. 

"Certainly  I  do,"  he  said. 

"And  Mr.  Cresswell?" 

"  He  is  one  of  my  most  intimate  friends." 

The  words  were  spoken  with  an  unconscious  warmth 
that  chilled  Cuckoo.  For  surely  the  man  who  spoke 
thus  of  the  man  she  hated,  must  be  her  enemy.  She 
faltered  visibly,  and  a  despairing  expression  crept  into 
her  eyes. 

"  I  do  n't  know  as  it 's  any  use  my  sayin'  it,"  she  be- 
gan as  if  half  to  herself. 


THE    LADY    VISITS    LEVILLIER        313 

The  doctor  saw  that  she  was  much  troubled  and  the 
kindness"  of  his  nature  was  roused. 

"Don't  be  afraid  of  me,"  he  said.  "You  have  come 
here  to  tell  me  something,  tell  it  frankly.  I  am  a  friend 
of  both  the  people  you  mention." 

"  You  can't  be  that, "  she  suddenly  cried.  **  Nobody 
can't  be  that!  " 

"Why  not?" 

"You  ought  to  know." 

She  said  it  fiercely.  All  her  self-consciousness  was 
suddenly  gone,  swept  away  by  the  flood  of  thought  and 
of  remembrance  that  was  surging  through  her  mind. 

"Why  can't  you  see  what  he  is,"  she  exclaimed, 
"  any  more  than  he  can,  than  Julian — Mr.  Addison,  I 
mean?     Any  one  'd  think  you  was  all  mad,  they  would." 

Doctor  Levillier  was  glad  he  had  admitted  the  lady  of 
the  feathers  to  his  presence.  Interest  sprang  up  in  him, 
alive  and  searching. 

"  Tell  me  what  you  mean,"  he  said.  "  Are  you  talk- 
ing about  Mr.  Cresswell?  " 

"Yes,  I  am;  and  I  say  of  all  the  beasts  in  London 
he  's  the  greatest." 

Cuckoo  did  not  choose  her  words  carefully.  She  was 
highly  excited  and  she  wanted  to  be  impressive.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  to  use  strong  language  was  the  only 
way  to  be  impressive.  So  she  used  it.  The  doctor's 
face  grew  graver. 

"  Surely  you  hardly  know  what  you're  saying,"  he 
said  very  quietly. 

But  his  thoughts  flew  to  that  summer  night  when  his 
mastiffs  howled  against  Valentine,  and  he  felt  as  if  a 
mystery  were  deepening  round  him  as  the  autumn  mist 
of  evening  deepened  in  the  street  outside. 

"I  do,"  she  reiterated.  "I  do.  But  nobody  won't 
see  it.     And  it 's  no  use  what  I  see.      How  can  it  be?  " 

The  words  were  almost  a  wail. 

"Tell  me  what  you  see." 

Cuckoo  looked  into  the  doctor's  sincere  eyes,  and  a 
sudden  rush  of  hope  came  to  her. 

"  That 's  what  I  want  to.  But  if  you  like  him  you  '11 
only  be  angry." 


314  FLAMES 

"No,  I  shall  not." 

"  Well,  then.     I  see  as  he's  ruinin'  his  friend." 

"  Ruining  Mr.  Addison?  " 

"Yes." 

It  struck  the  doctor  as  very  strange  that  such  a  girl 
as  Cuckoo  obviously  was  should  cry  out  in  such  a  pas- 
sionate way  against  the  ruin  of  any  young  man.  Was  it 
not  her  fate  to  ruin  others  as  she  herself  had  been  ruined? 
He  wondered  what  her  connection  with  the  two  youths 
was,  and  perhaps  his  face  showed  something  of  his 
wonder,  for  Cuckoo  added,  after  a  long  glance  at  him: 

"  It 's  true;  yes,  it  is,"  as  if  she  read  his  doubts. 

"  How  do  you  come  to  know  it?  "  the  doctor  said, 
not  at  all  unkindly,  but  as  if  anxious  to  elucidate  mat- 
ters. 

"Why,  I  tell  you  I  can  see  it  plain.  Besides,"  and 
here  she  dropped  her  voice,  "Valentine,  as  he  calls  him- 
self— though  he  ain't — as  good  as  told  me.  He  did  tell 
me,  only  I  could  n't  understand.  He  knew  I  could  n't 
— d'  you  see?  That  's  why  he  told  me.  Oh,  if  he  'd 
only  tell  you!  " 

Fragments  of  Valentine's  exposition  of  his  deeds  and 
of  his  strange  gospel  were  floating  through  Cuckoo's 
mind  as  fragments  of  broken  wood  float  by  on  a  stream, 
fragments  of  broken  wood  that  were  part  of  a  puzzle, 
that  should  be  rescued  by  some  strong  hand  from  the 
stream,  and  fitted  together  into  a  perfect  whole. 

"Valentine!  You  say  he  told  you  that  he  was  ruin- 
ing Julian?  " 

Unconsciously  the  doctor  used  the  Christian  names. 
His  doing  so  set  Cuckoo  more  at  her  ease. 

"Yes.  Not  like  that.  But  he  told  me.  He  ain't 
what  you  think,  nor  what  Julian  thinks.  He  's  somebody 
else,  and  you  can't  tell  it.      He  's  laughing  at  you  all." 

Thus  the  gospel  came  forth  from  the  painted  lips  of 
Cuckoo,  crude  and  garbled,  yet  true  gospel.  The  doc- 
tor was  completely  puzzled.  All  he  gathered  from  this 
announcement  was  that  Valentine  seemed  in  some  way  to 
have  been  confiding  in  this  girl  of  the  streets.  Such 
a  fact  was  sufficiently  astounding.  That  they  should 
ever  have  been  associated  together  in  any  way  was  al- 


THE    LADY   VISITS   LEVILLIER       315 

most  incredible  to  any  one  who  knew  Valentine.  Yet  it 
was  quite  obvious  that  they  did  know  each  other,  and 
in  no  ordinary  manner. 

"  Do  you  know  Mr.  Cresswell  well?"  the  doctor  said. 

He  saw  that  he  could  only  make  the  tangle  clear  by 
being  to  some  extent  judicial.  Humanity  merely  ex- 
cited Cuckoo  to  something  that  was  violently  involved, 
passionate,  and  almost  hysterical. 

"Well  enough." 

"And  Mr.  Addison?" 

Cuckoo  flushed  slowly. 

"Yes,  I  know  him  —  quite  well." 

An  almost  similar  answer,  but  given  with  such  a 
change  of  manner  as  would  be  possible  only  in  a  woman. 
It  told  the  doctor  much  of  the  truth  and  gave  him  the 
first  page  of  a  true  reading  of  Cuckoo's  character.  But 
he  went  on  with  apparently  unconscious  quietude: 

"  And  you  came  here  to  tell  me,  who  know  and  like 
them  both,  that  the  one  is  ruining  the  other.  What  made 
you  come  to  me?  " 

"Why,  somethin' Julian  said  once.  He  thinks  a  lot 
of  you.  I  was  afraid  to  come,  but  I  —  I  thought  I  would. 
It 's  seein'  them  —  at  least  Julian — since  they  got  back 
made  me  come." 

"I  haven't  seen  them  yet,"  the  doctor  said,  and 
there  was  an  interrogation  in  the  accent  with  which  he 
spoke.  Something  in  Cuckoo's  intense  manner  roused 
both  wonder  and  alarm  in  him.  She  evidently  spoke 
driven  by  tremendous  impulse.  What  vision  had  given 
that  impulse  life? 

"Ah!"  she  said,  and  fell  suddenly  into  a  dense 
silence,  touching  her  left  cheek  mechanically  with  her 
hand,  which  was  covered  by  a  long,  black  silk  glove. 
She  alternately  pressed  the  fingers  of  it  against  the 
cheek  bone  and  withdrew  them,  as  one  who  marks  the 
progress  of  a  tune,  hummed  or  played  on  some  instru- 
ment. Her  eyes  were  staring  downwards  upon  the  car- 
pet. The  doctor  watched  her,  and  the  wonder  and  fear 
grew  in  him. 

"  Have  you  nothing  more  to  tell  me?  "  he  said  at  last. 

"Eh?" 


3i6  FLAMES 

She  put  down  her  hand  slowly  and  turned  her  eyes  on 
him. 

"What  do  you  wish  me  to  do?  "  he  said,  "  I  do  not 
know  yet  what  may — "  he  checked  himself  and  substi- 
tuted, "I  must  go  and  see  my  friends." 

"Yes,  go." 

She  nodded  her  head  slowly,  and  then  she  shivered  as 
she  sat  in  the  chair. 

"Go,  and  do  somethin',"  she  said.  "I  would  —  I 
want  to  —  but  I  can't.  It's  true,  I  suppose,  what  he 
said.  I  'm  nearly  done  with,  I  *m  spoilt.  I  say,  you  're 
a  doctor,  are  n't  you?  You  know  things?  Tell  me  then, 
do,  what  's  the  good  of  goin'  on  being  able  to  feel  —  I 
mean  to  feel  just  like  anybody,  anybody  as  has  n't  gone 
down,  you  know  —  if  you  can't  do  anythin'  the  same  as 
they  can,  get  round  anybody  to  make  'em  go  right?  I 
could  send  him  right,  I  could,  as  well  as  any  girl,  if  feel- 
in'  'd  only  do  it.  But  feelin'  ain't  a  bit  of  good.  It 's 
looks,  I  suppose.      Everythin'  's  looks." 

"  No,  not  everything,"  the  doctor  said. 

Cuckoo's  speech  both  interested  and  touched  him. 
Its  confused  wistfulness  came  straight  from  the  heart. 
And  then  it  recalled  to  the  doctor  a  conversation  he 
had  had  with  Valentine,  when  they  talked  over  the  ex- 
traordinary influence  that  the  mere  appearance  —  will 
working  through  features  —  of  one  man  or  woman  can 
have  over  another.  The  doctor  could  only  at  present 
rather  dimly  apprehend  the  feeling  entertained  for  Julian 
by  Cuckoo.  But  as  he  glanced  at  her,  he  understood 
very  well  the  pathos  of  the  contest  raging  at  present 
between  her  heart  and  the  painted  shell  which  held  it. 

"  Nobody  who  feels  goodness  is  utterly  bereft  of  the 
power  of  bringing  good  to  another,"  he  said.  "  For  we 
can  seldom  really  feel  what  we  can  never  really  be." 

Light  shone  through  the  shadows  of  the  tired  face  at 
the  words. 

"  He  said  different  from  that,"  she  exclaimed. 

"He  — who?" 

"  Him  as  you  call  Valentine.  "  That 's  why  he  told 
me  all  about  it,  because  he  knew  as  I  should  n't  under- 
stand, and  because  he  thinks  I  can't  do  nothin'  for  any 


THE   LADY   VISITS   LEVILLIER       317 

one.  But  I  say,  you  do  somethin'  for  Julian,  will  you, 
will  you? " 

There  was  a  passion  of  pleading  in  her  voice.  She 
had  lost  her  fear  of  him,  and,  stretching  out  her  hand, 
touched  the  sleeve  of  his  coat. 

"I  don't  understand  it  all,"  the  doctor  said.  "I 
do  n't  like  to  accept  what  you  say  about  Mr.  Cresswell, 
even  in  thought.  But  I  will  go  and  see  him,  and  Julian. 
The  dogs,"  he  added  in  a  low  and  secret  voice  to 
himself.  "There  is  something  terribly  strange  in  all 
this." 

He  fell  into  a  silence  of  consideration  that  lasted 
longer  than  he  knew.  The  lady  of  the  feathers  began 
to  fidget  in  it  uneasily.  She  felt  that  her  mission  was 
perhaps  accomplished  and  that  she  ought  to  go.  She 
looked  across  at  the  doctor,  pulled  her  silk  gloves  up  on 
her  thin  arms,  and  kicked  one  foot  against  the  other. 
He  did  not  seem  to  notice.  She  glanced  towards  the 
window.  The  fog  was  pressing  its  face  against  the 
glass  like  a  dreary  and  terrible  person  looking  upon 
them  with  haggard  eyes.  It  was  time,  she  supposed, 
for  her  to  drift  out  into  the  arms  that  belonged  to  that 
dreary  and  terrible  face.     She  got  up. 

"  I  '11  go  now,"  she  said. 

The  doctor  did  not  hear. 

"I'll  go  now,  please,"  she  repeated. 

This  time  he  heard  and  got  up.  He  looked  at  her 
and  said,    "I  have  your  address.     I  will  see  you  again." 

If  misery  chanced  to  stand  once  in  his  path,  he  sel- 
dom lost  sight  of  it  till  he  had  at  least  tried  to  bring  a 
smile  to  its  lips,  a  ray  of  hope  to  its  eyes.  But  in  the 
instance  of  Cuckoo  he  had  other  reasons,  or  might  have 
other  reasons,  for  seeing  her  in  the  future. 

"You  are  sure  you  have  nothing  more  to  say  to 
me?  "  he  asked. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  No,  I  do  n't  think,"  she  murmured. 

"Then  good-bye." 

He  held  out  his  hand.  She  put  hers  in  it,  with  an 
action  that  was  oddly  ladylike  for  Cuckoo.  Then  she 
went  out,  rather  awkwardly,  in  a  reaction,  to  the   hall, 


3i8  FLAMES 

the  doctor  following.  He  opened  the  door  for  her,  and 
the  mist  crawled  instantly  in. 

"It  's  a  gloomy  night,"  he  said.     "Very  autumnal." 

"Yes,  ain't  it?     I  do  hate  the  nights." 

She  spoke  the  words  with  an  accent  that  was  vene- 
mous. 

"C-r-r!"she  said. 

And  with  that  ejaculation,  half  an  uttered  shiver, 
half  a  muttered  curse,  she  gave  herself  to  the  fog,  and 
was  gone. 

Doctor  Levillier  stood  for  a  moment  looking  into  the 
vague  and  dreamy  darkness.  Then  he  put  on  his  coat 
and  hat,  caught  up  a  cab  whistle,  and  with  a  breath, 
sent  a  shrill  and  piercing  note  into  the  night.  Long  and 
mournfully  it  sounded.  And  only  the  moist  silence  an- 
swered like  that  paradox  —  a  voice  that  is  dumb.  Again 
and  again  the  cry  went  forth,  and  at  last  there  was  an 
answering  rattle.  Two  bright  eyes  advanced  in  the  fog 
very  slowly,  looking  for  the  sound,  it  seemed,  as  for  a 
thing  visible.  The  doctor  got  into  the  cab,  and  set 
forth  in  the  fog  to  visit  Valentine. 


CHAPTER   II 

THE  VOICE  IN  THE  EMPTY  ROOM 

When  the  doctor  arrived  at  the  Victoria  Street  flat 
Valentine's  man  answered  his  ring.  Wade  had  been 
with  Valentine  for  many  years  and  was  always  famous 
for  his  great  devotion  to,  and  admiration  of,  his  master. 
Wade  was  also  especially  partial  —  as  he  would  have  ex- 
pressed himself  —  to  Doctor  Levillier,  and  when  he  saw 
who  the  visitor  was,  his  face  relaxed  into  contentment 
that  strongly  suggested  a  smile. 

"  Back  at  last  Wade,  you  see,"  the  doctor  said,  cheer- 
fully.     "Is  Mr.  Cresswell  in?" 

"  No,  sir.  But  I  expect  him  every  minute  to  dress  for 
dinner.  He  's  dining  out,  and  it 's  near  seven  now. 
Will  you  come  in  and  wait?  " 

"Yes." 

The  doctor  entered  and  walked  into  the  drawing- 
room,  preceded  by  Wade,  who  turned  on  the  light. 

"Why!  what  have  you  been  doing  to  the  room?  "  the 
doctor  said,  looking  round  in  some  surprise.  "  Dear 
me.     It 's  very  much  altered." 

In  truth,  the  change  in  it  was  marked.  The  grand 
piano  had  vanished,  and  in  its  place  stood  an  enormous 
cabinet  made  of  wood,  stained  black,  and  covered  with 
grotesque  gold  figures,  whose  unnatural  faces  were 
twisted  into  the  expressions  of  all  the  vices.  Some  of 
these  faces  smiled,  others  scowled,  others  protruded 
forked  tongues  like  snakes  and  seemed  to  hiss  along  the 
blackness  of  the  background.  The  shapes  of  the  fig- 
ures were  voluptuous  and  yet  suggested,  rather  than 
fully  revealed,  deformity,  as  if  the  minds  of  these  mon- 
sters sought  to  reveal  their  distortion  by  the  very  lines 
of  their  curved  and  wanton  limbs.  Upon  the  top  of  this 
cabinet  stood   a  gigantic   rose-coloured  jar  filled   with 

319 


320  FLAMES 

orchids,  the  Messalinas  of  the  hothouse,  whose  mauve 
corruption  and  spotted  faces  leered  down  to  greet  the 
gold  goblins  beneath.  It  was  easy  to  imagine  them 
whispering  to  each  other  soft  histories  of  unknown  sins, 
and  jeering  at  the  corrupt  respectabilities  of  London,  as 
they  clustered  together  and  leaned  above  the  ruddy 
ramparts  of  the  china,  wild  flowers  as  no  hedgerow  vio- 
let, or  pale  smirking  primrose,  is  ever  wild  in  the 
farthest  wood. 

Glancing  from  this  cabinet,  and  those  that  stood  upon 
it,  the  doctor  was  aware  of  a  deep  and  dusty  note  of  red 
in  the  room,  sounding  from  carpet  and  walls,  tingling 
drowsily  in  the  window  curtains  and  in  the  cushions  that 
lay  upon  the  couches.  This  was  not  the  crude  and  cheer- 
ful sealing-wax  red  with  which  the  festive  Philistine  loves 
to  dye  the  whiteness  of  his  dining-room  walls,  cooling 
its  chubby  absurdity  with  panels  of  that  old  oak, which  is 
forever  new.  It  was  a  dim  and  deep  colour,  such  as  a 
dust-filmed  ruby  might  emit  if  illuminated  by  a  soft  light. 
And  Valentine  had  shrouded  it  so  adroitly  that  though  it 
pervaded  the  entire  room,  it  always  seemed  distant  and 
remote,  a  background,  vast  perhaps,  but  clouded  and 
shadowed  by  nearer  things.  These  nearer  things  were 
many,  for  Valentine's  original  asceticism,  which  had  dis- 
played itself  essentially  in  the  slight  bareness  of  his  prin- 
cipal sitting-room  had  apparently  been  swept  away  by  a 
tumultuous  greed  for  ornaments.  The  room  was  crowded 
with  furniture,  chairs,  and  sofas  of  the  most  peculiar 
shapes,  divans  and  tables,  bookstands  and  settees.  One 
couch  was  made  of  wood,  carved  and  painted  into  the 
semblance  of  a  woman,  between  whose  outstretched  arms 
was  placed  the  pillow  to  receive  the  head  of  one  resting 
there.  Another  lay  on  the  bent  backs  of  two  grinning 
Indian  boys,  whose  crouching  limbs  seemed  twined  into 
a  knot.  Upon  the  tables  and  cabinets  stood  a  thousand 
ornaments,  many  of  them  silver  toys,  sweetmeat-boxes, 
tiny  ivory  figures  and  wriggling  atrocities  from  the  East. 
But  what  struck  the  doctor  most  in  the  transformation 
of  the  room  was  the  panorama  presented  upon  its  walls. 
The  pictures  that  he  remembered  so  well  were  all  gone. 
The  classical  figures,  the  landscapes  full  of  atmosphere 


THE   VOICE    IN   THE    EMPTY   ROOM     321 

and  of  delicacy  had  vanished.  And  from  their  places 
leered  down  jockeys  and  street-women  painted  by  Jan 
Van  Beers  and  D^gas,  Chaplin  and  Gustav  Courbet,  while 
above  the  mantelpiece,  where  once  had  hung  '*  The  Mer- 
ciful Knight,"  a  Cocotte  by  Leibl  smoked  a  pipe  into  the 
room.  It  seemed  incredible  that  Valentine  could  be  at 
rest  in  such  a  livid  chamber,  and  not  even  the  vague 
communications  of  Cuckoo  woke  in  the  doctor  such  a 
definite  and  alive  sensation  of  discomfort  as  this  vision 
of  outward  change  that  must  surely  betoken  an  inward 
transformation  of  the  most  vivid  and  unusual  kind.  And 
everywhere,  as  a  deep  and  monotonous  bell  ringing 
relentlessly  through  a  symphony  of  discordant  and  cry- 
ing passions,  there  sounded  that  sinister  note  of  deep 
and  dusty  red.  Despite  his  own  complete  health  of  mind, 
and  the  frantic  disquisitions  of  the  morbid  Nordau,  the 
little  doctor  felt  as  if  he  heard  the  colour,  as  if  it  spoke 
from  beneath  his  very  feet,  as  if  it  sang  under  his  fingers 
when  he  laid  them  on  the  brocade  of  a  couch,  as  if  the 
room  palpitated  with  a  heavy  music  which  murmured 
drowsily  in  his  ears  a  monotonous  song  of  dull  and  weary 
change.  No  silence  had  ever  before  spoken  to  him  so 
powerfully.  He  was  greatly  affected,  and  did  not  scruple 
to  show  his  discomfort  to  Wade,  who  waited  respectfully 
by  the  door. 

"What  an  alteration!  "  he  said  again,  but  in  a  lower 
and  more  withdrawn  voice.  "I  cannot  recognize  the 
room  I  once  knew  —  and  loved!  " 

"  Mr.  Valentine  has  been  doing  it  up,  sir." 

"But  why.  Wade;  why?" 

"I  don't  know,  sir;  a  fancy,  I  suppose,  sir." 

"An  evil  one,"  the  doctor  murmured  to  himself. 

He  glanced  at  Wade.  It  struck  him  that  the  man's 
mind  might  possibly  march  with  Cuckoo's  in  detection 
of  his  master's  transformation,  if  transformation  there 
were.  Wade  returned  the  doctor's  glance  with  calm, 
good  breeding. 

"  Mr.  Valentine  is  well,  I  hope,  Wade?  "  he  said. 

"Very  well,  sir,  I  believe." 

"And  Mr.  Addison?" 

"  I  could  n't  quite  say,  sir,  as  to  that." 


322  FLAMES 

*'  Do  you  mean  that  he  looks  ill?  " 

*' I  couldn't  say,  sir.  Mr.  Julian  don't  look  quite 
what  he  was,  to  my  view,  sir." 

"Oh." 

The  butler's  level  voice  mingled  with  the  clouded 
red  of  the  room,  and  again  a  prophetic  chord  of  change 
was  struck. 

"Thank  you.  Wade"  said  the  doctor. 

The  man  retired,  and  the  doctor  was  left  alone  in  the 
empty  room. 

4c  ^  4(  9|c  4: 

Although  he  was  intensely  sensitive,  Doctor  Levillier 
was  not  a  man  whose  nerves  played  him  tricks.  He  was, 
above  all  things,  sane,  both  in  mind  and  in  body,  full  of 
a  lively  calm,  and  a  bright  power  of  observation.  In- 
deed, having  made  the  nervous  system  his  special  life 
study,  he  was,  perhaps,  less  liable  than  most  other  human 
beings  to  be  carried  away  by  the  fancies  that  many  peo- 
ple tabulate  as  realities,  or  to  be  governed  by  the  beings 
that  have  no  real  existence  and  are  merely  projected  by 
the  action  of  the  imagination.  Half,  at  least,  of  his 
great  success  in  life  had  been  owing  to  his  self-possession, 
which  never  verged  on  hardness  or  fused  itself  with  its 
near  relation,  stolidity.  No  man,  in  fact,  was  less  likely 
to  be  upset  by  the  creatures  of  his  mind  than  he.  Yet 
when  Wade  had  gently  closed  the  drawing-room  door  and 
retreated  into  his  private  region,  the  doctor  allowed  him- 
self to  become  the  possession  of  an  influence  which,  to 
the  end  of  his  life,  he  believed  to  proceed  from  the  empty 
room  in  which  he  sat,  not  from  his  mind  who  sat  there. 
The  electric  light  shone  softly  beneath  the  shades  that 
shrouded  it,  and  revealed  delicately  but  clearly  every 
smallest  detail  of  the  crowded  chamber. 

The  hour  was  quiet.  No  fire  danced  in  the  grate. 
Doctor  Levillier  leaned  back  in  his  low  chair  with  the 
intention  of  composedly  awaiting  Valentine's  return. 
But  the  composure  which  had  already  been  slightly 
shaken  by  the  visit  of  the  lady  of  the  feathers,  and  by 
the  words  of  Wade,  was  destined  to  be  curiously  upset 
by  the  motionless  vision  of  the  empty  room. 

Sitting  thus  in  it  alone  the  doctor  examined  it  with 


THE   VOICE    IN   THE    EMPTY   ROOM     323 

more  detail,  and  with  a  more  definite  remembrance  of 
Valentine's  habit  of  mind  than  before.  And  he  found 
himself  increasingly  amazed  and  confounded.  For  not 
only  was  the  change  great,  but  it  was  not  governed  and 
directed  by  good  taste,  or  even  by  any  definite  taste, 
either  good  or  bad.  A  number  of  people  might  have  de- 
vised the  arrangement  and  selection  of  the  mass  of  fur- 
niture and  ornaments,  and  have  thrown  things  down 
here  and  there  in  sheer  defiance  of  each  other  's  predilec- 
tions. Only  in  the  setting,  the  red  setting  of  the  pic- 
ture, was  there  evidence  of  the  presence  of  a  presiding 
genius.  In  that  red  setting  the  doctor  supposed  that  he 
was  to  read  Valentine.  He  could  read  nobody  in  the 
rest  of  the  room,  or  perhaps  everybody  whose  taste  re- 
fused purity  and  calm  as  foolish  Dead  Sea  growths. 
Some  of  the  silver  ornaments  might  have  assembled  in 
the  garish  boudoir  of  a  Parisian  fille  de  joie^  as  the  carved 
woman  might  have  been  the  couch  to  which  Thais 
tempted  Paphnuce,  and  the  Indian  boys  the  lifeless 
slaves  of  Aphrodite,  The  jockeys  on  the  wall  would 
have  been  at  home  on  the  lid  of  a  cigar  box  belonging  to 
any  average  member  of  the  jeunesse  doree  of  any  Conti- 
nental city,  while  an  etching  of  Felicien  Rops  that 
lounged  upon  a  sidetable  would  have  been  eminently 
suitable  to  the  house  of  a  certain  celebrity  nicknamed 
the  "Queen  of  Diamonds."  The  golden  figures  that 
sprawled  over  the  huge  cabinet  must  have  delighted  cer- 
tain modern  artists,  whose  rickety  fingers  can  only  por- 
tray in  line  a  fanciful  corruption  totally  devoid  of  rela- 
tion to  humanity,  but  such  frail  spectres  would  have 
shrunk  with  horror  from  certain  robust  works  of  art, 
over  which  the  most  healthy  of  the  beefy  brigade  might 
have  smacked  large  lips  for  hours.  The  room  was  in 
fact  one  quarrel  between  the  masculine  and  feminine, 
the  corrupt  **  modern"  and  the  flagrant  Philistine,  the 
vaguely  suggestive  Nineteenth  Century  Athenian  and 
the  larky  and  unbridled  schoolboy.  A  neurotic  woman 
seemed  to  have  been  at  work  here,  a  sordid  youth  there. 
On  a  sidetable  the  hysterical  man  of  our  civilization 
fought  a  duel  in  taste  with  some  Amazon  whose  kept 
vow  had  evidently  wrought  a  cancer  in  her  mind.      In 


324  FLAMES 

every  corner  there  was  the  clash  of  civil  war.  Yet  there 
was  always  the  cloudy  red,  visible  through  the  lattice- 
work of  decoration,  as  the  blue  sky  is  visible  through  the 
lattice- work  of  a  Tadema  interior.  In  that  clouded  red  the 
doctor  felt  himself  reading  a  new  yet  powerful  Valen- 
tine, and  in  the  grotesque  orchids  leaning  their  mis- 
shapen chins  upon  the  rosy  rim  of  their  vase.  Those 
flowers  had  evil  faces,  and  they  seemed  strangely  at 
home  in  the  silent  room  where  no  clock  ticked  and  no 
caged  bird  twittered.  Only  the  red  cloud  spoke  like  a 
dull  voice,  and  Doctor  Levillier  sat  and  listened  to  it, 
until  he  felt  as  if  he  began  to  know  a  new  Valentine. 
There  is  an  influence  that  emanates  from  lifeless  things, 
strong,  subtle,  and  penetrating;  an  influence  inform,  in 
colour,  in  scent,  even  in  juxtaposition.  And  such  influ- 
ence is  like  a  voice  speaking  to  the  soul.  There  was  a 
voice  in  that  empty  room;  and  the  words  it  uttered 
stirred  the  doctor  to  a  greater  surprise,  a  greater  dread 
than  the  words  of  Cuckoo.  Her  painted  lips  related 
that  which  might  well  be  a  legend  of  her  fancy  or  of  her 
hate.     This  voice  related  a  reality  and  no  legend. 

As  the  doctor  sat  there  he  conversed  of  many  strange 
and  evil  matters,  of  many  discomforting  affairs.  He 
was  the  interrogator,  the  perpetual  anxious  questioner, 
and  the  voice  in  the  empty  room  gave  vague  and  sinister 
answers.  That  was  a  terrible  catechism,  a  catechism  of 
the  devil,  not  of  God.  Question  and  answer  flowed  on, 
and  in  the  doctor's  soul  the  anxiety  and  the  distress  ever 
deepened.  Nor  could  he  control  their  development, 
although  at  moments  his  common  sense  broke  into  the 
catechism  like  a  cool  voice  from  without,  and  sought  to 
interrupt  it  finally.  But  the  twig  could  not  stay  the  tor- 
rent. And  the  darkness  deepened,  darkness  in  which 
there  was  a  vision  of  fire,  the  vision  of  a  man,  fantastic 
and  menacing.  He  was  the  genius  of  this  room.  This 
room  sang  of  him.  Yes,  even  now  the  twisted  silver 
goblins,  the  curved  monstrosities  on  the  cabinet,  the 
crouched  Indian  boys,  the  leering  pictures,  and  always 
the  dull  red  cloud  on  wall  and  carpet,  cushion  and  hang- 
ing.    And  then  a  strange  deception  overtook  the  doctor 


THE   VOICE    IN   THE   EMPTY   ROOM     325 

and  shook  his  usually  steady  nerves.  The  red  cloud 
seemed  to  his  observing  eyes  to  tremble,  like  a  flame 
shaken  in  a  breath  of  wind,  and  to  glow  all  around  him. 
He  looked  again,  endeavouring  to  laugh  at  his  delusion. 
But  the  glow  deepened  and  there  was  surely  distinct 
movement.  Everywhere  on  walls,  floor,  hangings, 
couches,  faint,  thin  shadow?  took  shape,  grew  more  defi- 
nite. He  watched  them  and  saw  that  they  were  tiny 
flames,  glowing  red  relieved  against  the  red.  It  was  as 
if  he  sat  in  the  midst  of  a  ghostly  furnace;  for  these 
flames  had  no  pleasant  crackling  voices.  Silently  they 
burned,  and  fluttered  upward  noiselessly.  He  saw  them 
move  this  way  and  that.  Some  leaped  up ;  others  bent 
sideways;  others  wavered  uncertainly,  as  if  their  desire 
were  incomplete  and  their  intention  undecided.  The 
doctor  stared  upon  them,  and  listened  for  the  chorus 
that  fires  sing  to  tremble  and  to  murmur  from  their  lips. 
Yet  they  sang  no  chorus,  but  always,  in  a  ghostly  silence, 
aspired  around  him.  He  knew  himself  to  be  the  victim 
of  a  delusion.  He  knew  what  he  would  have  said  to  a 
patient  seeking  his  aid  against  such  a  deception  of  the 
senses.  In  his  common  sense  he  knew  this,  and  yet  he 
gradually  lost  the  notion  that  he  was  being  deceived,  and 
allowed  himself  to  drift,  as  he  had  seen  others  drift,  into 
the  fancy  that  he  was  holding  strange  intercourse  with 
the  actual.  These  flames  were  real.  They  had  forms. 
They  moved.  They  enclosed  him  in  a  circle.  They 
embraced  him.  As  he  watched  them  he  fancied  that 
they  longed  to  be  near  to  him,  and  —  and  —  yes  —  so 
ran  his  thoughts  —  to  communicate  something  to  him,  to 
sigh  out  their  fiery  hearts  on  his.  They  trembled  as  if 
convulsed  with  emotion,  with  desire.  They  tried  to 
escape  from  the  sinister  red  background  that  held  them 
in  its  grasp  as  in  a  leash.  The  doctor  was  impelled 
ardently  to  believe  that  they  yearned  to  find  voices  and 
to  utter  some  word.  And  then,  on  a  sudden,  he  recalled 
Julian's  declaration  on  the  night  of  Valentine's  trance, 
that  he  had  seen  a  flame  shine  from  his  friend's  lips,  and 
fade  away  in  the  darkness.  He  recalled,  too,  Julian's 
question  about  death-beds.     Was  the  soul  of  a  man  a 


326  FLAMES 

flame?  And,  if  so,  were  these  flames  many  souls,  or  one 
soul  reproduced  on  all  sides  by  his  excitement,  and  by 
the  intensity  of  his  gaze  after  them? 

They  burned  more  clearly.  Their  forms  were  more 
defined.  Then  suddenly  they  grew  vague,  blurred,  faint 
all  around  him.  They  faded.  They  died  into  the  red  of 
the  room.     And  once  more  the  doctor  sat  alone. 

He  listened  and  heard  the  click  of  a  key  in  the  front 
door.  And  then  suddenly  the  horror  that  he  had  felt 
long  ago,  on  the  night  when  he  was  followed  in  Regent 
Street,  once  more  possessed  him.  He  got  on  his  feet  to 
face  it,  and,  as  the  drawing-room  door  was  pushed 
slowly  open,  faced  Valentine. 


CHAPTER   III 

THE   DOCTOR   MEETS  TWO  STRANGERS 

Upon  seeing  the  doctor,  Valentine  paused  on  the 
threshold  of  the  door,  and,  as  he  paused,  the  doctor's 
horror  fled. 

*' Valentine, "  he  said,  holding  out  his  hand. 

"Doctor." 

Their  hands  met  and  their  eyes.  And  then  Levillier 
had  an  instant  sensation  that  he  shook  hands  with  a 
stranger.  He  looked  upon  the  face  of  Valentine  cer- 
tainly, but  he  was  aware  of  a  subtle,  yet  large,  change  in 
it.  All  the  features  were  surely  coarser,  heavier.  There 
was  a  line  or  two  near  the  eyes,  a  loose  fullness  about 
the  mouth.  Yet,  as  he  looked  again,  he  could  not  be 
certain  if  it  were  so,  or  if  his  memory  were  at  fault, 
groping  after  a  transformation  that  was  not  there.  The 
words  he  now  said  truthfully  expressed  his  real  feeling  in 
the  matter. 

"You  are  quite  a  stranger  to  me,"  he  said. 

Valentine  accepted  the  remark  in  the  conventional 
sense. 

"Yes,  quite  a  stranger.  We  have  not  met  for  an 
age." 

The  voice  was  cool  and  careless. 

"I  have  been  waiting  for  you,"  the  doctor  went  on, 
still  unable  to  feel  at  his  ease.  "  By  the  way,  how  you 
have  changed  your  room." 

"Yes.     Do  you  like  it?  " 

"Well,  frankly,  no." 

"  I  am  sorry  for  that,"  Valentine  replied,  drawing  oflF 
his  gloves.  "Julian  chose  a  great  many  of  the  things 
in  it." 

"  Julian!     Did  he  devise  the  colour  scheme?  " 

"That  curious  red?     No,  that  was  my  idea.     But  he 

327 


328  FLAMES 

had  a  great  deal  to  do  with  the  new  furniture  and  tne 
ornaments." 

*' I  should  have  supposed  many  minds  had  been  at 
work  here. " 

Valentine  smiled,  and  the  doctor  was  convinced  that 
both  his  mouth  and  eyes  had  altered  in  expression. 

"  That  's  true  in  a  way,"  he  answered.  "  Julian  has 
had  various  advisers — of  the  feminine  gender.  The  love 
of  the  moment  is  visible  all  over  this  room.  That  is  why 
it  amuses  me.  Those  silver  ornaments  were  chosen  by  a 
pretty  Circassian.  A  Parisian  picked  out  that  black 
cabinet  in  a  warehouse  of  Boulogne.  A  little  Italian  in- 
sisted upon  that  vulgar-painted  sofa — and  so  on." 

"Why  do  you  allow  such  people  to  have  any  inter- 
course with  a  room  of  yours?  " 

"  Oh,  it  amused  Julian,  and  I  was  tired  of  my  room  as 
it  was.  After  '  The  Merciful  Knight '  went  to  be  cleaned, 
I  resolved  on  a  change." 

"  For  the  worse." 

"  Is  it  for  the  worse?  " 

"Surely." 

The  eyes  of  the  two  men  challenged  each  other. 
Valentine's  glance  was  carelessly  impudent  and  hardy. 
The  deference  which  he  had  always  given  to  the  doctor 
was  gone.  If  it  had  been  genuine  it  was  dead.  If  it 
had  only  been  a  mask  it  had  apparently  served  its  pur- 
pose and  was  now  contemptuously  thrown  aside.  Doctor 
Levillier  was  deeply  moved  by  the  transformation.  His 
friend  had  become  a  stranger  during  the  interval  of  his 
absence.  The  man  he  admired  was  less  admirable  than 
of  old.  He  recognized  that,  although  he  was  not  yet 
fully  aware  of  the  transformation  of  Valentine.  Before 
he  left  England  he  vaguely  suspected  a  change.  Now 
the  change  hit  him  full  in  the  heart.  So  acute  was  it 
that,  in  an  age  of  miracles,  he  could  well  have  believed 
Cuckoo  Bright's  disjointed  statement.  Valentine  was, 
to  his  mind,  even  in  some  strange  way  to  his  eye,  at  this 
moment  no  longer  Valentine.  He  was  talking  with  a 
man  whose  features  he  knew  certainly,  but  whose  mind 
he  did  not  know,  had  never  known.  And  his  former 
resolution  to  watch  Valentine  closelv  was  consolidated. 


DOCTOR   MEETS   TWO   STRANGERS     329 

It  became  a  passion.  The  doctor  woke  in  the  man. 
Nor  was  the  old  friend  and  lover  of  humanity  lulled  to 
sleep. 

"How  is  Julian?"  the  doctor  asked,  dropping  his 
eyes. 

"  Very  well,  I  think.  He  will  be  here  directly.  He  's 
coming  to  fetch  me.  We  are  dining  at  the  Prince's  in 
Piccadilly  in  the  same  party.  That  reminds  me,  I  must 
dress.     But  do  stay,  and  have  some  coffee." 

"  No  coffee,  thank  you." 

**  But  you  will  stay  and  see  Julian.  I  dare  say  he  will 
be  here  early." 

"Yes,  I  will  stay.     I  should  like  to  meet  him." 

After  a  word  or  two  more  Valentine  vanished  to  dress, 
and  the  doctor  was  once  more  alone.  He  was  much  per- 
plexed and  saddened,  but  keenly  interested  too,  and, 
getting  up  from  the  chair  in  which  he  had  been  sitting, 
he  moved  about  the  grotesque  and  vulgar  room,  thread- 
ing his  way  through  the  graceless  furniture  with  a  silent 
and  gentle  caution.  And  as  he  walked  meditatively  he 
remembered  a  conversation  he  had  held  with  Valentine 
long  ago,  when  the  latter  had  spoken  complainingly  of 
the  tyranny  of  an  instinctive  purity.  The  very  words  he 
had  used  came  back  to  him  now: 

"The  minds  of  men  are  often  very  carefully,  very 
deftly  poised,  and  a  little  push  can  send  them  one  way 
or  the  other.  Remember  if  you  lose  heaven,  the  space 
once  filled  by  heaven  will  not  be  left  empty." 

Had  not  the  little  push  been  given?  Had  not  heaven 
been  lost?  That  was  the  problem.  But  Doctor  Levillier, 
if  he  saw  a  little  way  into  effect,  was  quite  at  a  loss  as 
to  cause.  And  already  he  had  a  suspicion  that  the  change 
in  Valentine  was  not  quite  on  the  lines  of  one  of  those 
strange  and  dreadful  human  changes  familiar  to  any 
observant  man.  This  suspicion,  already  latent,  and 
roused,  perhaps,  in  the  first  instance  long  ago  by  the 
mystery  of  Rip's  avoidance  of  his  master,  and  by  the 
shattering  of  Valentine's  musical  powers,  was  confirmed 
in  the  strongest  way  when  Julian  appeared  a  few  minutes 
later.  Yet  the  change  in  Julian  would  have  seemed  to 
most  people  far  more  remarkable. 


330  FLAMES 

He  came  into  the  drawing-room  rather  hastily,  in 
evening  dress  with  a  coat  over  it.  Wade  had  forewarned 
him  of  the  doctor's  presence,  and  he  entered,  speaking 
loud  words  of  welcome,  and  holding  out  a  greeting  hand. 
The  too-ready  voice  and  almost  premature  hand  beto- 
kened his  latent  uneasiness.  Vice  makes  some  people 
unconscious,  some  self-conscious.  Julian  belonged  at 
present  to  the  latter  tribe.  Whether  he  was  thoroughly 
aware  of  self-alteration  or  not,  he  evidently  stirred 
uneasily  under  an  expectation  of  the  doctor's  surprise. 
This  drove  his  voice  to  loud  notes  and  his  manner  to  a 
boisterous  heartiness,  belied  by  the  shifting  glance  of  his 
brown  eyes. 

The  doctor  was  astounded  as  he  looked  at  him.  Yet 
the  change  here  was  far  less  inexplicable  than  that  other 
change  in  Valentine.  Its  mystery  was  the  familiar  mys- 
tery of  humanity.  Its  horror  was  the  horror  that  we  all 
accept  as  one  of  the  elements  of  life.  Deterioration, 
however  rapid,  however  complete,  does  not  come  upon 
us  like  a  ghost  in  the  night  to  puzzle  us  absolutely.  It 
is  not  altogether  out  of  the  range  of  our  experience. 
Most  men  have  seen  a  man  crumble  gradually,  through 
the  action  of  some  vice,  as  a  wall  crumbles  through  the 
action  of  time,  falls  into  dust  and  decay,  filters  away  into 
the  weed-choked  ditches  of  utter  ruin  and  degradation. 
Most  women  have  watched  some  woman  slip  from  the 
purity  and  hope  and  innocence  of  girlhood  into  the  faded 
hunger  and  painted  and  wrinkled  energies  of  animalism. 
Such  tragedies  are  no  more  unfamiliar  to  us  than  are 
the  tragedies  of  Shakespeare.  And  such  a  tragedy  — 
not  complete  yet,  but  at  a  third-act  point,  perhaps  —  now 
faced  Doctor  Levillierin  Julian.  The  wall  that  had  been 
so  straight  and  trim,  so  finely  built  and  carefully  pre- 
served, was  crumbling  fast  to  decay.  A  ragged  youth 
slunk  in  the  face,  beggared  of  virtue,  of  true  cheerful- 
ness, of  all  lofty  aspiration  and  high  intent.  It  was 
youth  still,  for  nothing  can  entirely  massacre  that  gift  of 
the  gods,  except  inevitable  Time.  But  it  was  youth 
sadder  than  age,  because  it  had  run  forward  to  meet  the 
wearinesses  that  dog  the  steps  of  age  but  that  should  never 
be   at  home  with  age's   enemy.     Julian    had    been   the 


DOCTOR   MEETS   TWO   STRANGERS     331 

leaping  child  of  healthy  energy.  He  was  now  quite 
obviously  the  servant  of  lassitude.  His  foot  left  the 
ground  as  if  with  a  tired  reluctance,  and  his  hands  were 
fidgetty,  yet  nerveless.  The  eyes,  that  looked  at  the 
doctor  and  looked  away  by  swift  turns,  burned  with 
a  haggard  eagerness  unutterably  different  from  their 
former  bright  vivacity.  Beneath  them  wrinkles  crept  on 
the  puffy  white  face  as  worms  about  a  corpse.  Busy  and 
tell-tale,  they  did  not  try  to  conceal  the  story  of  the 
body  into  which  they  had  prematurely  cut  themselves. 
Nor  did  Julian's  features  choose  to  back  up  any  reserve 
his  mind  might  possibly  feel  about  acknowledging  the 
consummate  alteration  of  his  life.  They  proclaimed,  as 
from  a  watch-tower,  the  arrival  of  enemies.  The 
cheeks  were  no  longer  firm,  but  heavy  and  flaccid.  The 
mouth  was  deformed  by  the  down-drawn  looseness  of  the 
sensualist,  and  the  complexion  beaconed  with  an  unnat- 
ural scarlet  that  was  a  story  to  be  read  by  every  street- 
boy. 

Yet,  even  so,  the  doctor,  as  he  looked  pitifully  and 
with  a  gnawing  grief  upon  Julian,  felt  not  the  mysteri- 
ous thrill  communicated  to  him  by  Valentine.  These 
two  men,  these  old  time  friends  of  his,  were  both  in  a 
sense  strangers.  But  it  was  as  if  he  had  at  least  heard 
much  of  Julian,  knew  much  of  him,  understood  him, 
comprehended  exactly  why  he  was  a  stranger.  Valen- 
tine was  the  total  stranger,  the  unknown,  the  undivined. 

Long  ago  the  doctor  had  foreseen  the  possibility  of 
the  Julian  who  now  stood  before  him.  He  had  never 
foreseen  the  possibility  of  the  new  Valentine.  The  one 
change  was  summed  up  in  an  instant.  The  other 
walked  in  utter  mystery.  The  doctor  had  been  swift  to 
notice  Julian's  furtive  glance,  and  was  equally  swift  in 
banishing  all  trace  of  surprise  from  his  own  manner.  So 
they  met  with  a  fair  show  of  cordiality,  and  Julian 
developed  a  little  of  his  old  cheerfulness. 

"Val's  dressing,"  he  said.  "Well,  there's  plenty  of 
time.     By  the  way,  how's  your  Russian,  doctor?" 

"Better." 

"You 've  cured  him!     Bravo!" 

**  I  hope  I  have  persuaded  him  to  cure  himself.  *' 


333  FLAMES 

Julian  looked  up  hastily. 

"Oh,  that  sort  of  complaint,  was  it?" 

He  laughed,  not  without  a  tinge  of  bitterness. 

**  Perhaps  he  does  n't  want  to  be  cured. " 

**I  have  persuaded  him  to  want  to  be,  I  think." 

*'  Is  n't  that  rather  a  priest's  office?  "  Julian  asked. 

The  doctor  noticed  that  a  very  faint  hostility  had 
crept  into  his  manner. 

"Why?" 

"Oh,  I  do  n't  know.  Such  an  illness  is  a  matter  of 
temperament,  I  dare  say,  and  the  clergy  tinker  at  our 
temperaments,  don't  they?  while  you  doctors  tinker  at 
our  bodies." 

"A  nerve-doctor  has  as  much  to  do  with  mind  as 
body,  and  no  doctor  can  possibly  do  much  good  if  he 
entirely  ignores  the  mind.      But  you  know  my  theories." 

"  Yes.  They  make  you  clergyman  and  doctor  in  one, 
a  dangerous  man." 

And  he  laughed  again,  jarringly,  and  shifted  in  his 
seat,  looking  around  him  with  quick  eyes. 

"What  do  you  think  of  the  room?  "  he  said  abruptly. 

"I  think  it  entirely  spoilt  and  ruined,"  the  doctor 
answered  gravely. 

"  It 's  altered,  certainly." 

"Yes,  for  the  worse.  It  was  a  beautiful  room,  one 
of  the  most  beautiful  in  London." 

A  momentary  change  came  over  Julian.  He  dropped 
his  hard  manner,  which  seemed  an  assumption  to  cover 
inward  discomfort  or  shame. 

"Yes, "he  said  almost  regretfully.  "I  suppose  it 
was.  But  it 's  gayer  now,  got  more  things  in  it.  Full 
of  memories  this  room  is." 

The  last  remark  was  evidently  put  forth  as  a  feeler, 
to  find  out  what  Valentine  had  been  talking  about.  Dr. 
Levillier  was  habitually  truthful,  although  he  could  be 
very  reserved  if  occasion  seemed  to  require  it.  At  pres- 
ent he  preferred  to  be  frank. 

"  Memories  of  women,"  he  remarked. 

**  Oh,  you  've  heard?  " 

"  That  several  tastes  helped  to  make  his  room  the 
pandemonium  which  it  is.     Yes." 


DOCTOR   MEETS   TWO    STRANGERS     333 

"You're  severe,  doctor." 

"Perhaps  you  like  the  room  for  its  memories, 
Addison." 

Julian  looked  doubtful. 

"I  don't  know.     I  suppose  so,"  he  hesitated. 

"By  the  way,  is  there  among  these  vagrant  memories 
of  Circassians,  Greeks,  and  Italians  anything  chosen  by 
Cuckoo  Bright?" 

Julian  started  violently. 

"Cuckoo  Bright,"  he  exclaimed,  "what  do  you 
know  of  her? " 

As  he  spoke  Valentine  strolled  into  the  room  dressed 
for  dinner.  He  was  drawing  on  a  pair  of  lavender 
gloves,  and  looked  down  sideways  at  his  coat  to  see  if 
his  buttonhole  of  three  very  pale  and  very  perfectly 
matched  pink  roses  was  quite  straight. 

"Cuckoo  Bright?"  he  echoed.  "  Does  everybody 
know  her,  then?  How  came  she  into  your  strict  life, 
doctor? " 

Doctor  Levillier  noticed  that  Valentine,  like  Julian, 
carefully  set  him  aside  as  a  being  in  some  different 
sphere,  much  as  a  great  many  people  insist  on  setting 
clergymen.  This  fact  alone  showed  that  he  was  talking 
with  two  strangers,  and  seemed  to  give  the  lie  to  long 
years  of  the  most  friendly  and  almost  brotherly  inter- 
course. 

"Is  my  life  so  strict,  then?  "  he  asked  gently. 

"  I  think  little  Cuckoo  would  call  it  so,  eh,  Julian?  " 

He  glanced  at  Julian  and  laughed  softly,  still  drawing 
on  his  gloves.  In  evening  dress  he  looked  curiously 
young  and  handsome,  and  facially  less  altered  than  the 
doctor  had  at  first  supposed  him  to  be.  Still  there  was 
a  difference  even  in  the  face ;  but  it  was  so  slight  that  only 
a  keen  observer  would  have  noticed  it.  The  almost 
frigid  and  glacial  purity  had  floated  away  from  it  like  a 
lovely  cloud.  Now  it  was  unveiled,  and  there  was  some- 
thing hard  and  staring  about  it.  The  features  were 
still  beautiful,  but  their  ivory  lustre  was  gone.  A  line 
was  penciled,  too,  here  and  there.  Yet  the  doctor  could 
understand  that  even  Valentine's  own  man  might  not 
appreciate  the  difference.     The  manner,   however,   was 


334  FLAMES 

more  violently  altered.  It  was  that  which  made  the 
doctor  think  again  and  intensely  of  Cuckoo  s  vague  yet 
startling  statement. 

"Where  did  you  meet  Cuckoo,  doctor? 

It  was  Julian  who  spoke,  and  the  words  were  uttered 
with  some  excitement. 

*'  I  have  met  her,"  Levillier  replied. 

It  was  sufficiently  evident  that  he  did  not  intend  to 
say  where. 

But  Valentine  broke  in: 

"She  has  called  on  you  again,  then,  and  this  time 
found  you  at  home.  I  scarcely  thought  she  would  take 
the  trouble." 

"Again!  "  the  doctor  said. 

"  Yes.  One  evening  when  you  were  away  I  saw  her 
at  your  door  and  ventured  to  give  her  a  piece  of  advice." 

"And  that  was?  " 

"Not  to  trouble  you.  I  told  her  your  patients  were 
of  a  different  class." 

"  In  that  case  I  fear  you  misrepresented  me,  Cresswell. 
I  do  not  choose  my  patients.  But  Cuckoo  Bright  is  no 
patient  of  mine." 

"  If  she  's  not  ill,"  Julian  said,  "  why  should  she  go 
to  you?  " 

"That  is  her  affair,  and  mine,"  the  doctor  answered, 
in  his  quietest  and  most  finishing  tone. 

Julian  accepted  the  delicate  little  snub  quietly,  but 
Valentine  sneered. 

"  Perhaps  she  went  to  seek  you  in  your  capacity  of  a 
doctor  of  the  mind  rather  than  of  the  body.  Perhaps, 
after  all,  she  sought  your  aid." 

As  he  spoke  the  doctor  could  not  help  having  driven 
into  h'm  the  conviction  that  the  words  were  spoken  with 
meaning,  that  Valentine  knew  the  nature  of  Cuckoo's 
mission  to  Harley  Street.  There  rose  in  him  suddenly  a 
violent  sensation  of  enmity  against  Valentine.  He  strove 
to  beat  it  down,  but  he  could  not.  Never  had  he  felt 
such  enmity  against  any  man.  It  was  like  the  fury  so 
obviously  felt  by  Cuckoo.  The  doctor  was  ashamed  to 
be  so  unreasonable,  and  believed  for  a  moment  that  the 
poor  street-girl  had  absolutely  swayed  him,  and  predis- 


DOCTOR   MEETS   TWO   STRANGERS     335 

posed  him  to  this  animus  that  surged  up  over  his  normal 
charity  and  good,  clear  impulses  of  tenderness  for  all 
that  lived. 

**  My  aid,"  he  said — and  the  turmoil  within  him 
caused  him  to  speak  with  unusual  sternness.  "And  if 
she  did,  what  then?  " 

"Poor  Cuckoo!  "  Julian  said,  and  there  was  a  touch 
of  real  tenderness  in  his  voice. 

"Oh,  I  have  nothing  to  say  against  it,"  Valentine 
replied,  buttoning  slowly  and  carefully  the  last  button  of 
the  second  glove.  "  Only,  Cuckoo  Bright  is  beyond 
aid.     She  can  neither  help  herself  nor  anyone  else." 

"How  do  you  know,  Cresswell?  " 

"Because  I  have  observed,  doctor.  Once  I,  too, 
thought  that  even  Cuckoo  might — might — well,  have 
some  fight  in  her.  I  know  now  that  she  has  not.  Her 
corruption  of  body  has  led  to  worse  than  corruption  of 
mind,  to  corruption  of  will.  Cuckoo  Bright  is  as  helpless 
as  is  a  seabird  with  a  shot  through  its  wings,  upon  the 
sea.  She  can  only  drift  in  the  present  —  die  in  the 
future." 

The  doctor  listened  silently.     But  Julian  said  again: 

"  Poor,  poor  Cuckoo!  " 

The  exclamation  seemed  to  irritate  Valentine,  for  he 
caught  up  his  cloak  and  cried: 

"Bah!  Let's  forget  her.  Doctor,  we  must  say 
good-night.  We  are  due  at  the  Prince's.  It  has  been 
good  to  meet  you  again." 

The  last  words  sounded  like  the  bitterest  sarcasm. 


CHAPTER    IV 

THE    DEATH    OF   RIP 

Although  Dr.  Levillier's  visit  to  Victoria  Street  had 
been  such  a  painful  one,  he  had  no  intention  whatever  of 
letting  the  two  young  men  drift  away  out  of  his  acquaint- 
ance. He  wanted  especially  to  be  with  them  in  public 
places,  and  to  see  for  himself,  if  possible,  whether 
Cuckoo's  accusation  against  Valentine  were  true.  That 
a  frightful  change  had  taken  place  in  Julian's  life,  and 
that  he  was  rapidly  sinking  in  a  slough  of  wholly  inor- 
dinate dissipation  was  clear  enough.  But  did  Valentine, 
this  new,  strange  Valentine,  lead  him,  or  merely  go  with 
him,  or  stand  aloof  smiling  at  him  and  letting  him  take 
his  own  way  like  a  foolish  boy?  That  question  the  doctor 
must  decide  for  himself.  He  could  only  decide  it  satis- 
factorily by  ignoring  Valentine's  impertinence  to  himself, 
and  endeavouring  to  resume  his  former  relations  of 
intimacy  with  these  old  friends  who  were  strangers.  He 
began  by  asking  them  both  to  dinner.  Rather  to  his 
surprise  they  accepted  and  came.  The  mastiffs  were 
shut  close  in  their  den  below,  lest  they  should  repeat  their 
performance  of  the  summer.  The  dinner  passed  off  with 
some  apparent  cheerfulness,  but  it  served  to  show  the 
doctor  the  gulf  that  was  now  fixed  between  him  and  his 
former  dear  associates.  He  was  on  one  shore,  they  on 
another.  Their  faces  were  altered  as  if  by  the  desolate 
influence  of  distance.  Even  their  voices  sounded  strange 
and  far  away.  Great  spaces  had  widened  between  their 
minds  and  his.  He  endeavoured  at  first  to  cover  those 
spaces,  to  bridge  that  gulf;  but  he  soon  came  to  learn 
the  vanity  of  such  an  attempt.  He  could  not  go  to  them, 
nor  would  they  return  to  him.  He  could  only  pretend 
to  bridge  the  gulf  by  the  exercise  of  a  suave  diplomacy, 
and  by  carefully  banishing  from  his  manner  every  trace 

336 


THE    DEATH   OF   RIP  337 

of  that  dispraising  elderliness  which  seems  to  the  young 
the  essence  of  prudery  arising,  like  an  appalling  Phoenix, 
from  the  ashes  of  past  imprudence.  In  this  way  he 
drew  a  little  nearer  to  Julian,  who  obviously  feared  at 
first  to  suffer  condemnation  at  his  hands,  but,  finding 
only  geniality,  lost  his  uneasiness  and  suffered  himself 
to  become  more  natural. 

But  this  thawing  of  Julian,  the  quick  response  of 
humanity  to  the  adroit  treatment  of  it,  only  threw  into 
harsher  relief  the  immobility  of  Valentine,  and  to 
him  the  doctor  drew  no  nearer,  but  seemed,  with  each 
moment,  more  distant,  more  absolutely  divided  from 
him.  And  the  gulf  between  them  was  full  of  icebergs, 
which  filled  the  atmosphere  with  the  breath  of  a  deadly 
frost.  This  was  what  the  doctor  felt.  What  Valentine, 
the  new  Valentine,  felt  could  not  be  ascertained.  He 
wore  a  brilliant  mask,  on  whose  gay  mouth  the  society 
smile  was  singularly  well  painted.  He  wore  a  manner 
edged  with  tinkling  bells  of  brilliancy.  Happiness  and 
ease  beamed  in  his  eyes.  Yet  his  look,  his  voice,  his 
smile,  his  gaiety  chilled  the  doctor  and  set  him  mentally 
shivering.  And  with  each  bright  saying  and  merry 
laugh  he  struck  a  blow  upon  the  former  friendship. 
The  doctor  fancied  he  could  actually  hear  the  sound  of 
the  hammer  at  its  work. 

The  simile  of  the  hammer  was  peculiarly  consonant 
with  his  present  view  of  the  new  Valentine,  for,  despite 
the  latter's  gaiety,  ease,  and  self-possession,  his  smiling 
sociability  and  expansiveness,  the  doctor  was  perpetually 
conscious  of  a  lurking  violence,  an  incessant  and  forcible 
exigence  in  him.  It  might  be  a  fancy,  but  the  doctor 
was  not,  as  a  rule,  the  prey  of  fancies.  Yet  Valentine 
gave  no  outward  hint  of  inward  turmoil.  Rather  did 
the  doctor  divine  it  as  by  a  curious  intuition  that  guided 
him  to  that  which  lay  in  hiding.  And  it  was  this  appre- 
hension of  a  deep  violence  and  peculiar,  excessive  ani- 
mation in  Valentine  that  woke  the  doctor's  deepest 
wonder,  and  set  the  gulf  between  them  so  widely.  For 
all  violence  had  once  been  so  specially  abhorred  by 
Valentine.  He  had  so  loved  and  sought  all  calm.  The 
calm,  he  had  often  said,  were  the  true  aristocrats  of  life. 


338  FLAMES 

Fury  and  any  wild  movements  of  the  passions  were  of 
the  gutter. 

That  dinner  was  returned.  The  doctor  dined  with 
Valentine  and  Julian  more  than  once,  and  accompanied 
them  to  the  theatre.  But  he  was  unable  to  make  certain 
of  Valentine's  precise  attitude  towards  Julian,  although 
he  saw  easily  that  the  influence  of  the  one  over  the  other 
had  rather  waxed  than  waned.  This  being  so,  it  fol- 
lowed that  Julian,  having  completely  changed,  the  influ 
ence  that  guided  him  must  have  completely  changed  also. 
The  pendulum  had  swung  back.  That  often  happened 
in  the  record  of  men's  lives.  But  not  in  such  a  way  as 
this.  The  doctor,  like  Cuckoo,  recognized  the  existence 
of  a  mystery.  But  he  was  by  no  means  prepared  to 
accept  her  fantastic  and  ignorantly  vague  explanation  of 
it.  That  was  a  wild  fable,  a  fairy  tale  for  a  child,  not  a 
reasonable  elucidation  for  a  man  and  a  doctor.  The 
most  curious  thing  of  all  was  that  she  declared  that 
Valentine  had  actually  told  her  the  truth  about  the 
matter,  knowing  that  she  could  not  understand  it.  The 
doctor  resolved  to  see  her  later,  and  to  question  her 
more  minutely  on  this  point.  Meanwhile  he  began  to 
watch  Valentine  carefully,  and  with  the  most  sedulous 
attention  to  every  detail  and  nuance  of  manner,  look, 
and  word.  He  understood  Julian.  His  sad  case  was  to 
an  extent  due  to  his  long  happiness  and  freedom  from 
the  bondage  in  which  so  many  men  move  wearily.  It 
was  as  if  his  passions  had  been  dammed  up  by  the  original 
influence  of  Valentine.  Through  the  years,  behind  the 
height  of  the  dam,  the  waters  had  been  rising,  accumulat- 
ing, pressing.  Suddenly  the  dam  was  removed,  and  a  de- 
vastating flood  swept  forth,  uncontrollable,  headlong,  and 
furious.  Julian  needed  rescue,  but  the  only  way  to  rescue 
seemed  to  lie  through  Valentine,  within  whose  circle  of 
influence  he  was  so  closely  bound.  The  mystery  of 
Valentine  must  be  laid  bare. 

And  so  the  doctor  watched  and  wondered,  bringing 
all  his  knowledge  of  the  world  and  of  the  minds  and 
bodies  of  men  to  help  him. 

And  meanwhile  the  lady  of  the  feathers  was  seen 
nightly  in  Piccadilly. 


THE    DEATH    OF    RIP  339 

And  Julian  went  his  way  steadily  downwards. 

4:  4c  !)«  «  4e 

One  night  there  was  a  flicker  of  snow  over  London, 
and  the  air  was  chill  with  the  breath  of  coming  winter. 
The  dreary  light  of  snow  illumined  the  faces  of  all  who 
walked  in  the  streets,  painting  the  brightest  cheeks  with 
a  murky  grey  pigment,  and  making  the  sweetest  eyes 
hollow  and  expressive  of  depression.  Heavily  the  after- 
noon went  by  and  the  evening  came  sharply,  like  a  blow. 

Dr.  Levillier  was  engaged  to  dine  with  Julian  and 
Valentine  at  the  former's  rooms  in  Mayfair.  Of  late  Val- 
entine had  seemed  to  seek  him  out,  and  especially  to 
enjoy  seeing  him  in  the  company  of  Julian.  And  the 
doctor  fancied  he  detected  something  of  a  triumph  that 
was  almost  blatant  in  Valentine's  manner  when  they 
three  were  together,  and  when  the  doctor's  eyes  rested 
sorrowfully  upon  that  crumbling  wall,  which  had  once 
been  so  fair  and  strong.  Of  late,  too,  the  doctor,  ever 
watching  for  the  signs  of  change  in  Valentine,  had  grown 
more  and  more  aware  that  he  was  an  utterly,  through  and 
through,  different  man  from  the  youth  men  had  called  the 
Saint  of  Victoria  Street.  He  felt  the  transformation  to 
be  inhuman,  and,  by  slow  and  reluctant  degrees,  he  was 
beginning  to  form  an  opinion.  It  was  only  in  embryo  as 
yet,  a  shadow  hesitating  in  the  background  of  his  mind. 
He  shrank  from  holding  it.  He  shuddered  at  its  coming. 
Yet,  if  it  were  right,  it  might  explain  everything,  might 
make  what  was  otherwise  incredible  clear  and  compre- 
hensible. 

Was  this  vile  change  in  his  friend  caused  by  a  radical 
distortion  of  mind?     Was  Valentine  a  madman? 

Lunacy  turns  temperaments  upside  down,  transforms 
the  lamb  into  the  tiger,  the  saint  into  the  murderer. 

Was  Valentine  then  mad?  and  was  the  monstrous  dis- 
tortion of  his  brain  playing  upon  the  life  of  Julian,  who, 
like  the  rest  of  the  world,  believed  him  sane? 

The  thought  came  to  the  doctor,  and  once  it  had  been 
born  it  was  often  near  to  him.  Yet  he  would  not  encourage 
it  unless  he  could  rest  it  upon  facts.  That  a  man  should 
change  was  not  a  proof  of  his  madness,  however  unac- 
countable the  change  might  seem.     The  doctor  watched 


340  FLAMES 

Valentine,  and  was  compelled  to  admit  to  himself  that  in 
every  way  Valentine  seemed  perfectly  sane.  His  cyni- 
cism, his  love  of  ordinary  life,  his  toleration  of  common 
and  wretched  people,  might  seem  amazing  to  one  who  had 
known  him  well  years  ago,  but  there  were  many  perfectly 
sane  men  of  the  same  habits  and  opinions,  of  the  same 
modes  of  speech  and  of  action.  If  the  doctor's  strange 
thought  were  to  become  a  definite  belief,  much  more 
was  needed,  something  at  least  of  proof,  something  that 
would  carry  conviction  not  merely  to  the  imagination, 
but  to  the  cool  and  searching  intellect. 

On  this  night  of  the  first  snow  the  doctor's  thought 
moved  a  step  forward  towards  conviction. 

When  he  arrived  at  Julian's  rooms,  he  was  greeted 
by  Valentine  alone. 

**Our  host  has  deserted  us,"  he  said,  leading  the 
doctor  into  the  fire. 

"What,  is  he  ill?" 

**He  has  not  returned.  He  went  away  last  night — 
on  a  quest  of  a  certain  pleasure.  This  afternoon  he 
wired,  asking  me  to  entertain  you.  He  was  unavoidably 
detained,  but  hoped  to  arrive  in  time  for  dessert.  His 
present  love's  arms  are  very  strong.      They  keep  him." 

"Oh!"  the  doctor  said,  slipping  out  of  his  cloak; 
"  we  dine  here ;  then?  " 

"We  do,  alone.  I  don't  think  we 've  dined  alone 
since  Julian  and  I  came  back  from  abroad,  and  you 
deserted  your  Russian." 

"No.     I  will  consider  myself  your  guest." 

It  struck  the  doctor  that  here  was  an  excellent  oppor- 
tunity for  confirming  or  abandoning  his  dreary  suspicion. 
Alone  with  Valentine,  he  would  be  able  to  lead  the  con- 
versation in  any  direction  he  chose.  He  was  glad  that 
Julian  had  not  returned,  and  resolved  to  use  this  oppor- 
tunity. 

They  went  into  the  dining-room  and  sat  down  to  din- 
ner. Valentine  was  apparently  rather  amused  at  playing 
the  host  in  another  man's  house.  It  was  novel,  and 
entertained  him.  He  was  obviously  in  splendid  spirits, 
ate  with  good  appetite  and  drank  the  champagne  with 
an  elation  not  unlike  the  elation  of  the  dancing  wine. 


THE    DEATH    OF   RIP  341 

More  than  once,  too,  he  alluded  to  Julian's  absence  and 
probable  occupation,  as  if  both  the  one  and  the  other 
were  bouquets  in  his  cap,  or  laurels  in  some  crown  which 
he  alone  could  wear.  Dr.  Levillier  noticed  it  and  sought 
to  draw  him  on  in  that  direction,  and  to  lead  him  to  some 
open  acknowledgment  of  his  share  in  Julian's  rapidly 
proceeding  ruin.  But  Valentine  changed  the  conversa- 
tion into  another  channel  without  apparently  observing 
his  companion's  intention,  or  deliberately  frustrating  it. 
He  chattered  of  a  thousand  things,  mostly  of  topics  that 
are  the  common  converse  of  London  dinner-tables.  The 
doctor  joined  in.  To  a  listening  stranger  the  two  men 
would  have  seemed  old  friends,  pleasantly  at  ease  and 
secure  with  one  another.  Yet  the  doctor  was  doing 
detective  duty  all  the  time.  And  Valentine!  was  he  not 
secretly  revelling  in  that  destruction  of  a  human  soul 
that  was  galloping  apace? 

Course  succeeded  course.  At  last  dessert  was  placed 
upon  the  table.     Valentine  raised  his  glass  with  a  smile: 

"Let  us  drink  the  health  of  Julian's  absence,"  he 
said.      *'  For  you  and  I  get  on  so  perfectly  together." 

"  Rather  a  cruel  toast  in  Julian's  own  rooms,"  said  the 
doctor. 

"Ah,  but  he  's  happy  enough  where  he  is." 

"You  know  where  that  is?  " 

"No — I  only  suspect,"  Valentine  cried  gaily.  "In 
the  wilds  of  South  Kensington,  in  a  tiny  house,  all  Mor- 
ris tapestry  and  Burne-Jones  stained  glass,  dwells  the 
latest  siren  who  has  been  calling  to  our  Ulysses.  He  is 
there,  I  suspect.  Wait  a  moment,  though.  His  telegram 
might  tell  us.     Where  was  it  sent  from?  " 

He  sprang  up,  went  to  the  writing-table  near  the  win- 
dow, and  caught  up  the  crumpled  thin  paper  that  he  had 
flung  down  there.  Smoothing  it  out,  he  read,  holding 
the  paper  close  to  a  wax  candle: 

"Handed  in  at  the  Marylebone  Road  office  at  5:50." 

His  brow  clouded. 

"Marylebone  Road,"  he  repeated,  looking  at  the 
doctor.      "  Why  should  he  be  there?  " 

His  words  immediately  set  the  doctor  on  the  track. 

"  Does  not  Cuckoo  Bright  live  there?  "  he  said. 


342  FLAMES 

"Yes,  she  does." 

"  May  he  not  be  with  her?  " 

Valentine  had  dropped  the  telegram.  He  was  stand- 
ing at  the  table,  and  he  pressed  his  two  fists,  clenched, 
upon  the  white  cloth. 

"  I  have  told  him  he  must  give  Cuckoo  up,"  he  said, 
almost  in  a  snarl. 

The  doctor  glanced  at  him  quickly. 

"You  have  told  him?" 

"Advised  him,  I  mean." 

"You  dislike  her?" 

"I!  No.  How  can  one  dislike  a  painted  rag?  How 
can  one  dislike  a  pink  and  white  shell  that  holds  nothing?" 

"  Every  body  holds  a  soul.  Every  human  shell  holds 
its  murmur  of  the  great  sea." 

"The  body  of  Cuckoo  then  contains  a  soul  that's 
cankered  with  disease,  moth-eaten  with  corruption,  worn 
away  to  an  atom  not  bigger  than  a  grain  of  dust.  I 
would  not  call  it  a  soul  at  all. " 

He  spoke  with  more  than  a  shade  of  excitement,  and 
the  gay  expression  of  his  face  had  changed  to  an  un- 
easy anger.  The  doctor  observed  it,  and  rejoined 
quietly: 

"How  can  you  answer  for  another  person's  soul? 
We  see  the  body,  it  is  true.  But  are  we  to  divine  the 
soul  from  that — wholly  and  solely?" 

"The  soul!     Let  us  call  it  the  will." 

"Why?" 

"  The  will  of  man  is  the  soul  of  man.  It  is  possible 
to  judge  the  will  by  the  body.  The  will  of  such  a 
woman  as  Cuckoo  Bright  is  a  negative  quantity.  Her 
body  is  the  word  'weakness,'  written  in  flesh  and  blood 
for  all  to  read." 

"Ah,  you  speak  of  her  will  for  herself,"  the  doctor 
said,  thinking  of  Cuckoo's  broken  wail  to  him,  as  she 
sat  on  that  autumn  evening  in  his  consulting-room. 
"  But  what  of  her  will  for  another,  her  soul  for  another?  " 

He  had  spoken  partly  at  random,  partly  led  by  the 
thought,  the  suspicion,  that  Cuckoo's  abandoned  body 
held  a  fine  love  for  Julian.  He  was  by  no  means  pre- 
pared for  the  striking  effect  his  remark  had  upon  Valen- 


THE    DEATH    OF   RIP  343 

tine.  No  sooner  were  the  words  spoken  than  a  strong 
expression  of  fear  was  visible  in  Valentine's  face,  of 
terror  so  keen  that  it  killed  the  anger  which  had  pre- 
ceded it.  He  trembled  as  he  stood,  till  the  table  shook ; 
and  apparently  noticing  this,  and  wishing  to  conceal  so 
extreme  an  exhibition  of  emotion,  he  slid  hastily  into  a 
seat. 

"  Her  will  for  another,"  he  repeated, — "  for  another. 
What  do  you  mean  by  that?  where  's  the  other,  then?  who 
is  it?" 

The  doctor  looked  upon  him  keenly. 

"Anybody  for  whom  she  has  any  desire,  any  solici- 
tude, or  any  love — you,  myself,  or — Julian." 

"Julian!  "  Valentine  repeated  unsteadily.  "Julian! 
you  mean  to  say  you  —  " 

He  pulled  himself  together  abruptly. 

"  Doctor,"  he  said,  "forgive  me  for  saying  that  you 
are  scarcely  talking  sense  when  you  assume  that  such  a 
creature  as  Cuckoo  Bright  can  really  love  anybody. 
And  even  if  she  did,  Julian  *s  the  last  man — oh,  but  the 
whole  thing  is  absurd.  Why  should  you  and  I  talk  about 
a  street-girl,  a  drab  whose  life  begins  and  ends  in  the 
gutter?  Julian  will  be  here  directly.  Meanwhile  let  us 
have  coffee." 

He  pushed  his  cigarette-case  over  to  the  doctor  and 
touched  the  bell. 

"Coffee!  "  he  said,  when  Julian's  man  answered  it. 

The  door  stood  open,  and  as  the  man  murmured, 
"Yes,  sir,"  a  dog  close  by  howled  shrilly. 

The  noise  diverted  Valentine's  attention  and  roused 
him  from  the  agitation  into  which  he  had  fallen.  He 
glanced  at  the  doctor. 

"Rip,"  he  said. 

"  Howling  for  his  master,"  said  the  doctor. 

"Wait  a  moment,"  Valentine  said  to  the  man,  who 
was  preparing  to  leave  the  room.     Then,  to  the  doctor: 

"  I  am  his  master." 

"  To  be  sure,"  rejoined  the  doctor,  who  had,  in  truth, 
for  the  moment  forgotten  the  fact,  so  long  a  time  had 
elapsed  since  the  little  dog  took  up  his  residence  with 
Julian. 


344  FLAMES 

"You  think  he  *s  howling  for  me?  "  Valentine  said. 

"  I  was  thinking  of  Julian  at  the  moment. " 

"  And  what  do  you  say  now?  Still  that  he  is  howling 
for  his  master?  " 

The  dog's  voice  was  heard  again.  It  sounded  almost 
like  a  shriek  of  fear. 

"  No,"  the  doctor  replied,  wondering  what  intention 
was  growing  in  Valentine's  face. 

"  Oh!  "  Valentine  said  curtly. 

He  turned  to  the  man. 

"Bateman,  bring  Rip  in  here  to  us." 

The  man  hesitated. 

**  I  do  n't  think  he  '11  come,  sir." 

**I  said,  bring  him  to  us." 

The  man  went  out,  as  if  with  reluctance.  Valentine 
turned  to  the  doctor. 

"We  spoke  about  soul  —  that  is,  will  —  just  now,"  he 
said.  "  To  deny  the  will  is  death,  despite  Schopenhauer. 
Death?  Worse  than  death  —  cowardice.  To  assert  the 
will  is  life  and  victory.  With  each  assertion  a  man  steps 
nearer  to  a  god.  With  each  conquest  of  another  will  a 
man  mounts,  and  if  any  man  wants  to  enjoy  an  eternity 
he  must  create  it  for  himself  by  feeding  his  will  or  soul 
with  conquest  till  it  is  so  strong  that  it  cannot  die." 

His  eyes  shone  with  excitement.  It  seemed  to  the 
doctor  that  he  was  caught  in  the  whirlpool  of  a  violent 
reaction.  He  had  shown  fear,  weakness;  he  was  aware 
of  it,  and  determined  to  reassert  himself.  The  doctor 
answered  nothing,  neither  agreeing  with  his  fantastic 
philosophy  nor  striving  to  controvert  it.  And  at  this 
moment  there  was  the  sound  of  a  struggle  and  of  whining 
outside.  The  door  was  pushed  open,  and  Julian's  man 
appeared,  hauling  Rip  along  by  the  collar.  The  little  dog 
was  hanging  back,  with  all  its  force,  and  striving  to  get 
away.  Having  succeeded  in  getting  it  into  the  room,  the 
man  quickly  retreated,  shutting  the  door  hastily  behind 
him.  The  little  dog  was  left  with  Valentine  and  the 
doctor.  It  remained  shrinking  up  against  the  door  in  a 
posture  that  denoted  abject  fear,  its  pretty  head  turned 
in  the  direction  of  Valentine,  its  eyes  glaring,  its  teeth 
snapping  at  the  air.     The  doctor  looked  at  it  and  at  Val- 


THE    DEATH   OF   RIP  345 

entine.  His  pity  for  the  dog's  condition  was  held  in 
check  by  a  strange  fascination  of  curiosity.  He  leaned 
his  arms  on  the  table  and  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  Valen- 
tine, who  got  up  slowly  from  his  chair. 

"  I  have  let  Rip  be  the  prey  of  his  absurd  fancies  long 
enough,  doctor, ' '  he  said.  ' '  To-night  I  will  make  him  like 
me  as  he  used  to,  or  at  least  come  to  me." 

And  he  whistled  to  the  dog  and  called  Rip,  standing 
by  the  table.  Rip  howled  and  trembled  in  reply,  and 
snapped  more  fiercely  in  the  direction  of  Valentine. 

"Do  you  see  that,  doctor?  But  he  shall  come.  I 
will  make  him." 

He  shut  his  lips  firmly  and  stared  upon  the  animal. 
It  was  very  evident  that  he  was  exerting  himself  strongly 
in  some  way.  Indeed,  he  looked  like  a  man  performing 
some  tremendous  physical  feat.  Yet  all  his  limbs  were 
still.  The  violence  of  his  mind  created  the  illusion. 
Rip  wavered  against  the  door.  There  was  foam  on  his 
jaws  and  his  white  legs  trembled.  Valentine  snapped 
his  fingers  as  one  summoning  or  coaxing  a  dog.  The 
doctor  started  at  the  sound  and  leaned  further  forward 
along  the  table  to  see  the  upshot  of  this  strange  fight  be- 
tween a  man's  desire  and  an  animal's  fear.  Rip  scarcely 
whined  now,  but  turning  his  head  rapidly  from  one  side 
to  the  other,  with  a  motion  that  seemed  to  become  merely 
mechanical,  he  made  a  hoarse  noise  that  was  like  a  terri- 
fied and  distressed  growl  half  strangled  in  his  throat.  But 
though  he  wavered  against  the  door,  he  did  not  obey  Val- 
entine and  go  to  him,  and  the  doctor  was  conscious  of  a 
sudden  thrill  of  joy  in  the  dog's  obstinacy.  This  obstinacy 
angered  Valentine  greatly.  His  face  clouded.  He  bent 
forward.  He  put  out  his  hands  as  if  to  seize  Rip.  The 
dog  snapped  at  him  frantically,  wildly.  But  Valentine  did 
not  recoil.  On  the  contrary,  he  advanced,  bending  down 
over  the  wretched  little  creature.  Then  Rip  shrank 
down  on  all  fours  before  the  door.  To  the  doctor's 
watching  eyes  he  seemed  to  wane  visibly  smaller.  He 
dropped  his  head.  Valentine  bent  lower.  Rip  lay  right 
down,  pressing  himself  upon  the  floor.  As  Valentine's 
hand  touched  him  a  quiver  ran  over  him,  succeeded  by  a 
surprising  stillness. 


346  FLAMES 

The  doctor  made  a  slight  sound.  He  knew  that  Rip 
was  dead.  Valentine  took  the  little  dog  by  the  scruff  of 
its  neck  and  lifted  it  up.  Then  he,  too,  saw  what  he 
held.  He  glanced  at  the  doctor,  and  there  was  a  glare 
of  defeat  in  his  eyes.  Then  he  passed  across  the  room 
to  the  window,  still  holding  the  dog,  pulled  aside  the 
curtain  and  thrust  up  the  window.  The  ground  was 
white  and  the  snow  was  falling.  With  an  angry  gesture 
he  flung  the  body  out.  It  dropped  with  a  soft  noise  in 
the  snow  and  lay  there. 

Valentine  closed  the  window,  but  the  doctor  felt  as  if 
he  still  saw  the  poor  little  corpse  in  the  snow.  And  he 
shuddered. 

A  moment  afterwards  there  was  a  step  in  the  passage 
and  Julian  entered.  He  was  looking  haggard  and  ex- 
cited, and  ill  with  dissipation.  His  eyes  shone  in  deep 
hollows  that  seemed  to  have  been  painted  with  indigo, 
and  his  lips  were  parched  and  feverish. 

"Where  have  you  been,  Julian?"  said  Valentine. 

"Oh,  with  her — with  Molly,  of  course,"  he  replied. 

"What?     Till  now?" 

Julian  seemed  uneasy  under  his  scrutiny. 

"Till  this  Tnorning, "  he  replied,  almost  suddenly. 

"Well,  but  since  then?" 

"With  Cuckoo.     Oh !  do  n't  bother  me. " 

He  went  over  towards  the  window. 

"  Oh,  how  hot  it  is  here,"  he  said. 

He  glanced  at  the  bright  fire. 

"Intolerably!  "  he  murmured. 

And  he  opened  the  window  to  the  drifting  snow. 

"Am  I  mad?"  he  suddenly  cried  to  them.  "I  saw 
the  flame  in  her  eyes  again  to-day,  in  Cuckoo's  eyes.  It 
held  me  with  her.  I  '11  swear  it  held  me.  It  would  n't 
let  me  go — would  n't  let  me — till  now!  " 

He  sank  down  in  a  chair  by  the  window,  and  turning 
his  back  on  them,  pushed  his  head  out  to  get  air. 

"I  say,"  he  suddenly  called.  "What's  that,  that 
lying  there?  " 

Valentine  and  the  doctor  joined  him.  He  was  point- 
ing to  the  body  of  Rip,  which  was  already  almost  cov- 
ered by  the  snow. 


THE    DEATH    OF   RIP  347 

"That,"  Valentine  said;  "that  is—" 

"The  body  of  a  creature  that  died  fighting,"  the 
doctor  interrupted.  "A  fine  fashion  of  dying.  Look 
at  it,  Julian.  Its  soul  was  indomitable  to  the  last,  and 
so  it  won  the  battle  it  fought.  It  won  by  its  very  death 
even.     Nature  is  at  work  on  its  winding-sheet." 

Valentine  said  nothing. 


CHAPTER  V 

DOCTOR   LEVILLIER   VISITS  THE   LADY   OF   THE 
FEATHERS 

Julian's  utterance  about  the  flame  that  held  him  with 
the  lady  of  the  feathers  struck  Dr.  Levillier  forcibly  at  the 
time  it  was  made,  and  remained  in  his  mind.  He  could 
not  fail  to  connect  it  with  his  own  experience  in  Valen- 
tine's empty  room,  and,  going  further  back,  with  the  last 
sitting  of  the  two  young  men  which  was  succeeded  by 
the  long  trance  of  Valentine.  And  as  he  thought  of 
these  things,  it  suddenly  occurred  to  him  that  the 
ghastly  change  which  had  taken  place  in  Valentine  might 
well  date  from  that  night.  Since  the  death  of  Rip  the 
doctor  had  formed  the  opinion  that  Valentine  was  no 
longer  perfectly  sane.  His  excitement,  the  fury  of  his 
eyes  when  he  spoke  of  the  triumphs  of  will,  seemed  to 
give  the  clue  to  his  transformation.  The  insane  perpet- 
ually glorify  themselves,  and  are  transcendent  egoists. 
Surely  the  egoism  of  insanity  had  peeped  out  in  Valen- 
tine's diatribe  upon  the  eternity  of  a  strong  man's  indi- 
vidual will.  The  night  of  the  trance  had  been  a  strange 
crisis  of  his  life.  He  had  seemed  to  recover  from  it,  to 
come  back  from  that  wonderful  simulation  of  death 
healthy,  calm,  reasonable  as  before.  This  might  have 
been  only  seeming.  In  that  sleep  the  sane  and  beautiful 
Valentine  might  have  died,  the  insane  and  unbeautiful 
Valentine  have  been  born.  There  are  many  instances 
of  a  sudden  and  acute  shock  to  the  nervous  sys- 
tem leaving  an  indelible  and  dreary  writing  upon  the 
nature.  If  Valentine  had  thus  been  tossed  to  madness^ 
it  was  very  possible  that  his  dog,  an  instinctive  crea- 
ture, should  recognize  the  change  with  terror.  It  was 
even  possible  that  other  instinctive  creatures  should 
divine  the  hideous  mind  of  a  maniac  hidden  in  the  beau- 

348 


LEVILLIER   VISITS   THE   LADY       349 

tiful  body  of  an  apparently  normal  man.  And  Cuckoo, 
she  too  was  instinctive,  a  girl  without  education,  culture, 
the  reading  that  opens  the  mind  and  sometimes  shuts 
the  eyes.  Cuckoo  Bright,  she  had  divined  the  evil  of 
Valentine.  To  her  he  had  made  confession.  In  her 
eyes  Julian  had  seen  the  mysterious  flame.  Some  in- 
lluence  from  her  had  kept  him  from  his  invited  guests 
and  from  his  house.  Yes,  Cuckoo,  the  lady  of  the 
feathers,  the  blessed  damozel  of  Regent  Street  and  Pic- 
cadilly Circus,  the  painted  and  possessed,  faded  and  de- 
graded, wanderer  of  the  pavements,  seemed  to  become 
the  centre  of  this  wheel  of  circumstances,  as  Doctor 
Levillier  reflected  upon  her. 

It  was  time  for  him  to  go  to  Cuckoo.  Julian's  descent 
must  be  stayed,  before  he  went  down,  like  a  new  Orpheus 
without  a  mission,  into  Hades.  Valentine's  influence, 
whether  mad  or  sane,  must  be  fought.  It  was  to  be  a 
struggle,  a  battle  of  wills,  of  what  Valentine  chose  to 
consider  souls.  And  some  prompting  led  the  doctor  to 
think  of  Cuckoo  as  a  possible  weapon.  Why?  Because 
she  had  even  once  held  Julian  against  his  will,  against 
the  intention  of  his  soul. 

So  the  doctor  at  length  sought  the  lady  of  the  feath- 
ers. She  had  been  passing  through  a  period  of  great 
and  benumbing  desolation,  believing  that  her  last  appeal, 
her  great  effort  for  Julian,  had  been  a  failure.  For  the 
doctor  had  not  come  to  her,  and  Cuckoo  could  not  tell 
that  he  was  making  observations  for  himself  and  that  she 
was  often  in  his  mind.  She  supposed  that  he,  like  all 
others,  laughed  at  her  pretensions  to  gravity,  swept  her 
exhibition  of  real  and  honest  emotion  away  from  his 
memory  with  a  sneer,  considered  her  despair  over  an- 
other's ruin  a  vile  travesty,  a  grinning  absurdity  and 
trick.  Never  had  Cuckoo  felt  more  lonely  than  in  these 
days,  though  a  vast  loneliness  is  the  constant  companion 
of  her  large  sisterhood.  Even  Jessie  failed  to  comfort 
her,  and  she  could  find  little  courage  within  herself. 
And  yet  there  were  moments  when  the  vigour  that  had 
led  her  once  to  defy  Valentine,  when  the  fire  that  had 
sprung  up  in  her,  as  a  flame  may  burst  forth  in  a  swamp, 
seemed  to  be  near  to  her  again.    She  felt  a  new  possibil- 


350  FLAMES 

ity  within  her,  stirring,  striving.  It  was  at  such  moments 
that  she  longed  to  see  the  doctor,  and  could  have  cursed 
him  for  not  coming  to  her.  For  at  such  moments  she 
seemed  only  waiting  for  a  touch  of  sympathy,  a  word  of 
encouragement,  to  perform  some  great  action,  some 
momentous  deed.  But  the  touch,  the  word,  were  lack- 
ing, and  her  life  and  experience  of  constant  and  monot- 
onous degradation  dulled  the  impulse,  stifled  the  enthusi- 
asm that  she  could  not  understand.  And  she  fell  again 
to  brooding,  and  to  an  ignorant  and  vague  consciousness 
of  impotence. 

She  bought  a  new  hair-dye,  painted  her  thin  cheeks 
more  heavily  than  ever  before,  and  sought,  almost  with 
a  wild  exultation  that  swiftly  fled  away,  to  sink  lower. 

The  monotony  of  sin  is  one  of  the  scourges  of  sin.  In 
those  days  Cuckoo  suffered  many  stripes.  Her  eyes 
grew  more  weary,  her  smile  in  Piccadilly  more  mechan- 
ical, her  walk  more  puppet-like  than  ever.  Life  was  like 
a  moving  dream  of  horror.  And  yet  no  day  passed  with- 
out a  gleam  of  that  strange  sensation  of  ignorant  power, 
fluttering  upward,  fading  away,  pausing,  passing,  dead. 

She  did  not  know  what  it  meant.  She  could  not  keep 
it  nor  use  it.  She  could  not  unravel  its  message  nor  rest 
upon  its  strength.  It  was  gone  almost  while  it  came, 
but  it  did  something  for  the  lady  of  the  feathers.  It  gave 
to  her  the  little  seed  of  expectation  that,  quite  alone  in 
a  weary  desert,  yet  makes  of  that  desert  the  plot  men 
call  a  garden.  Like  a  thread  of  steel,  it  held  up  this 
girl  from  the  uttermost  abyss,  until  at  last  the  doctor's 
hand  struck  upon  her  door. 

Julian's  occasional  visits  were  as  the  scourgings  of 
God,  giving  to  Cuckoo  a  vision  of  shifting  ruin,  in  which 
she  —  so  she  told  herself,  thinking  of  the  dance  of  the 
hours  —  had  been  the  first  to  have  a  share. 

It  was  a  wintry  afternoon  when  the  doctor  came. 
Frost  clung  stealthily  round  the  grimy  black  trees,  out- 
lining their  naked  boughs  with  meagre  lines  of  white 
sewn  with  smuts.  Above  the  frost  hung  the  fog  as  if  in 
charge  of  the  town,  a  despondent  and  gloomy  sentinel. 
During  the  morning  the  sun  had  lain  in  the  fog  like  a 
faint  blood-red  jewel  in  a  thick  and  awkward  sulphur  set- 


LEVILLIER   VISITS   THE    LADY       351 

ting,  but  with  the  afternoon  the  jewel  faded  to  a  distant 
dim  phantom,  from  that  to  blank  nothingness.  As  if  sat- 
isfied with  this  piteous  exit,  the  fog  drew  closer,  keeping 
especially  heavy  watch  upon  the  long  and  bleak  line  of 
the  Marylebone  Road,  and  taking  the  high  and  narrow 
house  in  which  Cuckoo  dwelt  under  its  severest  protec- 
tion. Twilight  wanted  to  come  as  the  afternoon  drew 
on,  but  it  had  been  forestalled  and  was  practically 
already  there.  Doubtless  it  did  come,  but  no  one  was 
much  the  wiser.  The  lamps  had  been  alight  all  day,  and 
no  procession  of  gloomy  things,  advancing  from  whither- 
soever, could  have  added  much  to  the  volume  of  the 
crowding  darkness,  or  have  appreciably  increased  its 
density.  In  the  darkness  the  cold  gathered,  and  the 
frost  began  to  take  a  harder  grip  of  everything, — of  deso- 
late, solitary  pumps  in  tiny  and  squalid  back  yards,  of 
pipes  that  crawled  like  liver-coloured  snakes  over  the 
unpresentable  sides  of  houses,  of  pools  thick  with  orange- 
brown  mud,  and  vagrant  bushes  creaking  above  the 
grimy  earth  in  places  that  children  named  gardens. 

Fog  and  frost  had  taken  a  strong  grip,  too,  upon  the 
heart  of  the  lady  of  the  feathers.  Somewhere  about 
eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning  she  had  stirred  wearily  in 
her  bed,  had  stretched  out  her  arms  to  the  stagnant  air 
of  the  room,  and  crouched  up  on  her  pillow  in  a  gro- 
tesque hump.  For  a  while  the  hump  remained  motion- 
less. Then  Cuckoo  rolled  round  and  extended  a  bare 
thin  leg  to  test  the  atmosphere.  The  leg  was  quickly 
withdrawn,  the  atmosphere  having  been  evidently  tried 
in  the  balance  and  found  wanting.  Cuckoo's  bell  rang, 
and  Mrs.  Brigg  was  called  for  tea  and  toast,  while  once 
more  the  hump  decorated  the  upper  part  of  the  disor- 
dered bed.  Jessie,  awakened  in  her  basket  at  the  foot 
of  the  bed,  joined  the  hump,  whining  a  greeting,  and 
wriggling  furiously  in  an  effort  to  tunnel  her  way  to  the 
ultimate  depths  of  sheets  and  blankets.  Then  Mrs. 
Brigg,  of  yellowish  and  bleak  aspect,  beneath  a  tumbled 
appurtenance  that  she  called  a  cap,  appeared  with  a 
tray. 

"  Going  to  stop  abed?  "  she  asked,  in  a  husky  voice, 
in  which  the  smuts  seemed  floating. 


352  FLAMES 

"Yes.  What's  there  to  get  up  for?"  Cuckoo 
groaned. 

"  Nothun'  as  I  know  of." 

And  Mrs.  Brigg  was  gone  about  her  business. 

All  the  morning  Cuckoo  lay  staring  at  the  blank 
square  of  the  window,  and  Jessie  snored  under  the 
blankets.  The  tea  was  drunk,  the  toast  lay  about  in 
fragments.  One  bit,  hard  and  many  cornered  as  it 
seemed,  somehow  gained  entrance  to  the  bed,  and 
greeted  Cuckoo's  every  movement  with  uncompromising 
grittiness.  No  shaking  of  coverlet  and  sheet,  no  beating 
of  pillow,  no  kicks  and  scufflings  could  expel  it.  The 
bed  seemed  full  of  hard  bits  of  toast,  and  Cuckoo  felt  as 
if  an  additional  burden  were  laid  upon  her  by  this  slight 
evil.  But,  indeed,  the  horror  of  her  existence  reached  a 
culminating  point  to-day,  —  a  point  of  loneliness,  vacant 
dreariness,  squalor,  and  degradation  that  could  not  be 
surpassed.  The  preceding  night  had  been  peculiarly 
horrible,  and  as  Cuckoo  now  lay  on  the  tumbled  bed,  in 
the  dim,  cold  room,  with  the  fog  gazing  in,  the  leaden 
hours  of  winter  crawling  by,  she  felt  as  if  she  could  bear 
no  more.  She  could  bear  no  more  addition  to  her  sick 
weariness;  no  more  addition  to  her  useless  hunger  of 
love  for  Julian,  that  could  never  be  crowned  with  any- 
thing but  despair;  no  more  addition  to  her  bodily  fatigue, 
born  of  tramping  monotony  succeeded  by  yet  more 
enervating  weariness  of  the  flesh.  She  could  bear  no 
more.  Yes,  but  she  must  bear  more.  For  Cuckoo  knew 
that  she  was  not  dying,  was  not  even  ill.  She  was  only 
tired  in  body,  prostrate  in  heart,  deserted  in  life,  and 
forced  to  witness  the  quick  and  running  ruin  of  the  man 
she  had  the  farcical  absurdity  to  love.  Imaginative,  for 
once,  in  her  morbid  fatigue,  she  began  to  wish  that  she 
could  fade  away  and  become  part  of  the  fog  that  lay 
about  London,  be  drawn  into  its  murkiness,  with  all  her 
murky  recollections,  her  fiendish  knowledge,  her  mechan- 
ical wiles  of  the  streets,  her  thin  and  ghostly  despairs 
and  desires.  For  they  seemed  thin  and  ghostly,  they 
too,  to-day,  fit  food  for  the  fog,  as  indeed  the  whole  of 
her  was.  How  could  such  as  she  evaporate  into  sweet 
air,  a  clear  heaven? 


LEVILLIER   VISITS   THE   LADY       353 

She  caught  at  the  hand-glass,  leaning  far  out  on  the 
bed,  as  the  blessed  damozel  o'er  the  bright  bar  of 
heaven,  and  tried  to  see,  with  staring  eyes,  how  the  new 
hair-dye  that  she  was  now  using  became  her.  Her  mind 
was  vagrant,  coming  and  going  miserably,  from  that  love 
of  hers  which  was  strangely  strong  and  subtle,  to  the 
powder-box  with  its  arsenic-green  lid,  or  the  rouge-pot 
of  dirty  white  china.  And  by  each  event  it  paused  and 
sank,  as  if  benumbed  by  the  increasing  frost.  Leaning 
again  to  put  back  the  hand-glass  she  fell  over  too  far  and 
dropped  it.  The  glass  fell  face  downwards  and  was 
smashed.  Cuckoo  laughed  aloud,  revelling  feebly  in  the 
additional  misery  a  superstitious  mind  now  began  to 
promise  her.  The  fragments  of  broken  glass  actually 
pleased  her,  and,  on  a  sudden,  she  resolved  to  set  her 
feet  in  them,  that  she  might  be  cut  and  wounded,  that 
she  might  bleed  outwardly  as  she  had  been  bleeding 
inwardly  for  so  long.  She  swung  her  legs  over  the 
breadth  of  the  bed,  disorganizing  Jessie,  planted  her 
feet  in  the  array  of  glass  and  stood  up.  As  she  did  so 
the  doctor  mounted  her  doorstep,  plied  the  knocker  and 
rang  the  bell.  Cuckoo  stood  listening.  A  fragment  of 
glass  had  really  penetrated  the  bare  sole  of  her  foot, 
which  bled  a  little  gently  on  the  carpet.  But  she  scarcely 
knew  it.  She  heard  Mrs.  Brigg  go  by,  and  then  steps 
sounding  in  the  passage.  Then  there  came  to  her  ears 
a  quiet  voice  with  a  very  characteristic  note  of  bright 
calmness  in  it.  Standing  in  her  frilled  nightdress  among 
the  bits  of  glass.  Cuckoo  flushed  scarlet  all  over  her  face 
and  neck.  She  knew  who  the  visitor  was.  With  one 
dart  she  reached  the  washhand-stand.  Sponges,  brushes, 
combs,  all  her  weapons  of  the  toilet,  were  immediately  in 
commotion,  and  when  Mrs.  Brigg  opened  her  door,  the 
room  was  a  whirlpool  of  quick  activities,  in  the  midst  of 
which,  as  on  a  frouzy  throne,  Jessie  stood  upon  the  bed 
barking  excitedly.  Mrs.  Brigg  came  in  and  closed  the 
door.      Her  thin  lips  were  pursed. 

"Light  the  fire!"  Cuckoo  called  at  her  from  the 
basin. 

"What  do  you  want  the  doctor  for?  " 

Mrs.  Brigg  uttered  the  words  with  some  suspicion. 


354  FLAMES 

"  Hurry  up  and  light  the  fire!  " 

Cuckoo  turned  round,  her  hands  darting  in  her  hair, 
and  actually  laughed  with  a  touch  of  merriment. 

"You  old  owl !  He  's  not  come  to  doctor  me,  only  to 
see  me." 

Mrs.  Brigg  looked  relieved,  but  still  surprised. 

"Oh,"  she  said.      "That's  it,  is  it?" 

She  paused  as  if  in  consideration. 

Suddenly  Cuckoo  sprang  on  her,  twisted  her  round, 
and  spun  her  out  into  the  cold  passage.  "  Light  the  fire, 
I  tell  you!  " 

She  banged  the  bedroom  door  and  went  on  with  her 
rapid  toilet. 

When  she  came  into  the  sitting-room  an  uneasy  fire 
was  sputtering  in  the  grate,  one  gas-jet  flared,  and 
Doctor  Levillier  was  standing  by  the  window  looking  out 
at  the  fog.      He  turned  to  greet  her. 

"I  thought  you'd  forgotten  —  or  didn't  mean  to 
come,"  Cuckoo  said;  "  they  often  do  —  people  that  say 
they  will  to  me,  I  mean." 

The  doctor  held  out  his  hand  with  a  smile. 

"No.     Am  I  interrupting  you?" 

"Me!"  said  Cuckoo,  in  amazement,  thinking  of  her 
empty  days.      "  Lord,  no." 

Her  accent  was  convincing.  The  little  doctor  sat 
down  by  the  fire  and  put  his  hat  and  gloves  on  the 
table. 

"Mrs.  Brigg  thought  I  was  ill — you  bein'  a  doctor," 
Cuckoo  said,  with  an  attempt  at  a  laugh.  She  felt  ner- 
vous now,  and  was  not  sustained  to-day  by  the  strung-up 
enthusiasm  which  had  supported  her  in  Harley  Street. 
"  Funny  there  bein'  a  fog  again  this  time,  ain't  it?  " 

"Yes.  I  hope  we  shall  meet  some  day  in  clear 
weather." 

As  the  doctor  said  that,  following  a  tender  thought  of 
the  girl,  he  glanced  round  the  room  and  at  Cuckoo.  "I 
hope  so,"  he  repeated.     Then,  rather  abruptly: 

"Two  or  three  nights  ago  I  went  to  dine  with  Mr. 
Addison.     He  was  out.     He  was  here  with  you." 

Cuckoo  got  red.  She  could  still  be  very  sensitive 
with  a  few  people,  and  perhaps  Mrs.  Brigg  and  her  kind 


LEVILLIER   VISITS   THE   LADY       355 

had  trained  her  into  irritable  suspicion  of  suspicion  in 
others. 

"  Only  for  a  friendly  visit,"  she  said  hastily.  "Nothin* 
else.     He  would  stop." 

**  I  understand  perfectly,"  the  doctor  said  gently. 
Cuckoo  was  reassured. 

"  Did  he  say  as  he  'd  been?  " 

"Yes." 

Cuckoo  looked  at  the  doctor  and  a  world  of  reproach 
dawned  in  her  eyes. 

"I  say,"  she  said,  "you  haven't  done  nothin'. 
He  's  worse  than  ever.  He  's  gettin' — oh,  he  's  gettin' 
cruel  bad." 

Tears  came  up  over  the  world  of  reproach. 

"  It 's  all  him,  all  Valentine,"  she  said. 

And  Doctor  Levillier  was  moved  to  cast  reticence,  the 
usual  loyalty  of  one  man  to  another  who  has  been  his 
friend,  away.  Somehow  the  dead  body  of  Rip  lying  in 
the  snow  put  that  old  friendship  far  off.  And  also  an 
inward  thrill  caught  him  near  to  Cuckoo.  An  impulse, 
swift  and  vital,  thrust  his  mind  to  hers. 

"You  are  right,"  he  answered.  "I  believe  that  it  is 
all  Valentine." 

"There !  Did  n't  I  tell  you?  "  Cuckoo  cried  with  eyes 
of  triumph.  "It's  been  him  from  the  first.  Oh,  get 
him — get  Julian  away." 

The  doctor  laid  his  hand  upon  Cuckoo's,  which  was 
stretched  upon  the  tablecloth,  very  gently,  almost  ab- 
stractedly. 

"Will  you  tell  me  something?  "  he  said. 

"What's  it?" 

"You  love  Julian? " 

"  Me!  "  the  lady  of  the  feathers  said. 

Her  voice  trembled  over  the  word.  She  stole  a  hasty, 
hunted  glance  at  the  doctor.  Was  he,  too,  going  to  jeer 
at  her?  Would  no  one  allow  her  to  have  a  clean  corner 
in  her  heart  ? 

"  You  're  laughin'  at  me.  What 's  the  good  of  such 
as  me  doin'  a  thing  like  that — lovin'  a  man?  " 

"I  think  you  must  love  Julian.  If  you  do,  perhaps 
you  are  meant  to  protect  and  save  him." 


356  FLAMES 

A  secret  voice  prompted  the  doctor  with  the  words 
he  spoke,  gave  them  to  him,  bent  him  irresistibly  to  re- 
peat them.  Never  before  had  he  felt  what  it  is  to  be 
between  the  strong  hands  of  destiny. 

'*Me!     Me  save  any  one!  "  Cuckoo  said,  trembling. 

**  Yes,  you.  There  is  something  in  you — I  feel  it  and 
I  can't  tell  you  why,  nor  what  it  is — something  that  has 
hold  of  Julian.  He  told  us  so  the  other  night.  Do  n't 
you  know  what  it  is?  " 

"Eh?" 

"  Perhaps  he  feels  that  you  love  him — purely,  cleanly. " 

"  I  do — oh!  I  do  that!  "  Cuckoo  cried. 

A  wonder  as  to  the  relations  between  Julian  and  this 
girl  shot  through  the  doctor.  He  was  the  last  man  in  the 
world  to  think  evil  of  any  one,  but  just  then,  as  Cuckoo 
moved,  the  gaslight  struck  fully  on  her.  The  dye  on 
her  hair  shone  crudely.  The  red  and  white  of  her  face 
burned  as  on  the  face  of  a  clown.  And  then  even  the 
doctor's  good  heart  wondered.  Cuckoo  knew  it  in  an 
instant,  and  her  face  hardened  and  looked  older. 

**  Oh,  go  on,"  she  said  rudely.  "  Think  as  the  others 
do.     Damn  you  men!     Damn  you!     Damn  you!" 

And  without  warning  she  put  her  head  down  on  the 
table  and  broke  into  a  wild  passion  of  tears.  She  sobbed, 
and  as  she  sobbed  she  cursed  and  clenched  her  hands. 
She  lost  herself  in  fury  and  in  despair.  The  Fates  had 
stung  her  too  hard  this  time,  and  she  must  blaspheme 
against  them  with  her  voice  of  the  streets,  her  language 
of  the  streets,  her  poor  heart — not  quite  of  the  streets. 
The  Fates  had  stung  her  too  hard,  for  they  had  put  a 
flaw  even  in  this  one  self-respect  of  hers.  That  one 
night  accused  her  whenever  she  thought  of  Julian,  when- 
ever she  saw  the  dissipation  deepen  round  his  eyes.  She 
was  not  to  have  even  one  thing  that  she  could  be  quite 
proud  of;  not  one  thing  of  which  she  could  say,  "  This 
has  been  always  pure."  And  then  she  turned  on  the 
doctor  and  cried: 

"Goon — think  it — think  it!  Think  what  you  like! 
But  I  '11  tell  you  the  truth.  There  was  only  once  I  did 
him  any  harm,  and  that  was  n't  my  fault.  I  never 
wanted  to.     I  hated  it.     I  told  him  I  hated  it.    I  did  n't 


LEVILLIER   VISITS   THE    LADY       357 

want  him  to  be  that,  like  the  others.  And  that  was  Val- 
entine, too.  And  now — just  because  of  that  I  'm  no  use. 
And  you'd  said  I  might  be,  you  'd  said  I  might  be." 

"And  I  say  you  shall  be." 

The  wail  died  in  Cuckoo's  throat.  The  tears  were 
arrested  as  by  a  spell.  Dr.  Levillier  had  got  upon  his 
feet.  All  the  truth  and  tenderness  of  his  heart  was 
roused  and  quickened.  He  knew  real  passion,  real  grief^ 
and  from  that  moment  he  knew  and  trusted  the  lady  of 
the  feathers.  And  by  the  strength  of  her  bitterness, 
even  by  the  broken  curses  that  would  have  shocked  so 
many  of  the  elect  of  this  world,  he  measured  the  width 
and  the  depth  of  her  possibilities.  She  had  sent  to 
damnation — what?  The  vile  cruelty,  the  loathsome,  un- 
speakable, dastardly  mercilessness  of  the  world.  To 
damnation  with  it!  That  was  the  loud  echo  in  his  man's 
heart. 

"  That  one  night  is  nothing, "  he  said.  *'0r  rather 
it  is  something  that  you  must  redeem.  It  is  good  to 
have  to  pay  for  a  thing.  It  is  that  makes  one  work. 
There  is  a  work  for  you  to  do,  a  work  which  I  believe  no 
one  else  can  do.  You  love  Julian.  Love  him  more. 
Make  him  love  you.  My  will  cannot  fight  the  will  of 
Valentine  over  him.  No  man's  will  can.  A  woman's 
may.     Yours  may,  shall." 

His  pale,  small,  delicate  face  flamed  with  excitement 
as  he  spoke.  Few  of  his  patients  looking  upon  him  just 
then  would  have  known  their  calm  little  doctor.  But 
Cuckoo  had  cried  to  him  out  of  the  very  depths, 
and  out  of  the  very  depths  he  answered  her,  still 
prompted — though  now  he  knew  it  not — by  that  secret 
voice  which  sometimes  rules  a  man,  at  which  he  wonders 
ignorantly,  the  voice  of  some  soul,  some  great  influence, 
hidden  from  him  in  the  spaces  of  the  air,  the  voice  of  a 
flame,  warm,  keen,  alive,  and  power-prompting. 

And  Cuckoo,  as  she  listened  to  the  doctor,  had  once 
again  a  hint  of  her  own  strength,  a  thrill  of  hope,  a  sense 
that  she,  even  she,  was  not  broken  quite  in  pieces  upon 
the  cruel  wheel  of  the  world. 

"Whatever  can  I  do?"  she  said;  "Valentine's  got 
him." 


358  FLAMES 

As  she  spoke,  the  doctor,  restless,  as  men  are  in  ex- 
citement, had  moved  over  to  the  mantelpiece,  and  stood 
with  one  foot  upon  the  edge  of  the  fender.  Thinking 
deeply,  he  glanced  over  the  photographs  of  Cuckoo's 
acquaintance,  without  actually  seeing  them.  But  pres- 
ently one,  at  which  he  had  looked  long  and  fixedly, 
dawned  upon  him,  cruelly,  powerfully.  It  was  the  face 
of  Marr. 

"  Who  is  that?  "  he  said  abruptly  to  Cuckoo. 

"That?"  She  too  got  up  and  came  near  to  him, 
lowering  her  voice  almost  to  a  whisper.  "  That 's  really 
him.'* 

"Him?" 

"Valentine." 

The  doctor  looked  at  her  in  blank  astonishment. 

"Yes,  it  is,"  Cuckoo  reiterated,  and  nodding  her 
head  with  the  obstinacy  of  a  child. 

"That — Valentine!     It  has  no  resemblance  to  him." 

The  doctor  took  up  the  photograph,  and  examined  it 
closely.     "This  is  not  Valentine." 

"  He  told  me  it  was.  It's  Marr — and  somehow  it 's 
him  now." 

"Marr,"  said  the  doctor,  sharply.  "Why,  he  is 
dead.  Julian  told  me  so.  He  died  —  he  died  in  the 
Euston  Road  on  the  night  of  Valentine's  trance.  Ah, 
but  you  know  nothing  about  that.  Did  you  know  Marr, 
then?" 

"  Yes,  I  knew  him." 

Cuckoo  hesitated.  But  something  taught  her  to  be 
perfectly  frank  with  the  doctor.     So  she  added : 

"I  'd  been  with  him  at  that  hotel  the  night  he  died." 

"You  were  the  woman!  But,  then,  how  can  you  say 
that  this  (he  touched  the  photograph  with  his  finger)  is 
Valentine?  " 

"  He  says  he  's  really  Marr." 

Cuckoo  spoke  in  the  most  mulish  manner,  following 
her  habit  when  she  was  completely  puzzled,  but  sticking 
to  what  she  believed  to  be  the  truth. 

"  Marr  and  Valentine  one  man!     He  told  you  that?  " 

"  He  says  to  me — '  I  'm  Marr. '  " 

Cuckoo  repeated  the  words  steadily,  but  like  a  parrot. 


LEVILLIER  VISITS   THE   LADY       359 

The  doctor  said  nothing,  only  looked  at  her  and  at 
the  photograph.  He  was  thinking  now  of  his  suspicion 
as  to  Valentine's  sanity.  Had  he,  perhaps  in  his  mad- 
ness, been  playing  on  the  ignorance  of  the  lady  of  the 
feathers?     She  went  on: 

"  It  was  on  the  night  he  told  me  all  that.  I  could  n't 
understand  what  he  is  and  what  he  's  doing.  And  he 
said  that  the  real  Valentine  had  gone.  And  then  he 
said — '  I  am  Marr. '  " 

"The  real  Valentine  gone.  Yes,"  said  the  doctor, 
gravely,  "  that  is  true.  Does  he  then  know  that  he 
is — ?  "      "Mad"  was  on  his  lips,  but  he  checked  himself. 

'*  What  else  did  he  say  that  night?  "  he  asked.  "  Can 
you  remember?    If  you  succeed,  you  may  help  Julian. " 

Cuckoo  frowned  till  her  long,  broad  eyebrows  nearly 
met.  The  grimace  gave  her  the  aspect  of  a  sinister  boy, 
bold  and  audacious.  For  she  protruded  her  under  lip, 
too,  and  the  graces  of  ardent  feeling,  of  pain  and  of 
passion,  died  out  of  her  eyes.  But  this  abrupt  and  hard 
mask  was  only  caused  by  the  effort  she  was  making  after 
thought,  after  understanding.  She  pressed  her  feet 
upon  the  ground,  and  the  toes  inside  her  worn  shoes 
curved  themselves  inwards.  What  had  Valentine  said? 
What — what?"  She  stared  dully  at  the  doctor  under 
her  corrugated  brows. 

"What  did  he  say?"  she  murmured  in  an  inward 
voice,  "Well — he  did  n't  want  me  to  see  you.  He  came 
here  about  that — my  seeing  you." 

"Yes." 

"And  —  and  Marr 's  not  dead,  he  says,  at  least  not 
done  with.  Yes,  that  was  it  —  he  says  as  no  strong  man 
who  's  lived  long 's  done  with  when  he  's  put  away.   See?  " 

Her  face  lighted  up  a  little.  She  was  beginning  to 
trust  her  memory. 

"The  influence  of  men  lives  after  them,"  the  doctor 
said.      "  Marr's  too.     Yes.      He  said  that?  " 

She  nodded.  Then  with  a  flash  of  understanding,  a 
flash  of  that  smouldering  power  which  she  had  felt  in 
loneliness  and  longed  to  tear  out  from  its  prison,  she 
cried : 

"  That 's  it.     That  's  how  he  's  Marr,  then." 


360  FLAMES 

She  hesitated. 

"Is  n't  it?"  she  said,  flushing  with  the  thought  that 
she  might  be  showing  herself  a  fool.  For  she  scarcely 
understood  what  she  really  meant. 

"Valentine,  no  longer  himself,  but  endowed  with  the 
influence  of  Marr, "  the  doctor  muttered;  "  she  means 
that  he  told  her  something  like  that.  The  phantasy  of 
an  unsteady  brain." — "Go  on,"  he  added  to  her. 

But  Cuckoo  was  relapsing  into  confusion  already. 

"  And  then  he  talked  a  lot  about  will,  as  he  called  it. 
Can't  remember  what  he  said." 

"Try  to." 

She  was  silent,  knitting  her  brows. 

"It's  no  use.  I  can't,"  she  said,  despairingly. 
"  But  I  know  he  says  that  he's  really  Marr  and  that 
he  's  killed  Valentine.      He  said  that;  I  know  he  did." 

She  glanced  eagerly  at  the  doctor,  in  the  obvious  hope 
that  his  cleverness,  which  she  believed  to  be  unlimited 
and  profound,  would  in  a  flash  divine  all  the  strange 
secret  from  this  exposition  of  her  disjointed  recollection. 
With  each  word  she  spoke,  however,  the  doctor  became 
more  and  more  convinced  that  Valentine  had  only  been 
cruelly  amusing  himself  with  her,  or  weaving  for  her 
benefit  some  intricate  web  of  vain  madness.  And 
Cuckoo,  noticing  this  now,  and  recollecting  the  mo- 
mentary clearness  of  comprehension  which  had  seized 
her  at  one  point  in  Valentine's  wild  sermon  to  her,  was 
mad  with  herself  for  not  being  able  to  seize  again  that 
current  of  inspiration,  almost  mad  with  the  doctor  for 
not  unravelling  the  mystery.  This  excess  of  feeling 
finally  drowned  and  swept  away  as  a  corpse  the  memory 
of  the  gospel  of  influence. 

"I  can't  remember  no  more,"  she  said  stolidly. 
"  There  was  ever  such  a  lot  about  —  about  some  one  as 
was  good  and  did  n't  want  to  be  good  any  more,  and  so 
it  was  driven  away  —  I  don't  know.  P'rhaps  he  was 
only  gamin'  me." 

She  stared  moodily  at  her  feet,  which  she  had  stuck 
out  from  under  her  dress.  The  doctor  said  nothing,  but 
at  her  last  speech  his  face  had  lit  up  with  a  sort  of  ex- 
citement.    For  had  she  not  described  in  those  few  ill- 


LEVILLIER   VISITS   THE    LADY       361 

chosen  words  the  very  mental  position  of  the  former 
Valentine?  A  saint  at  first  with  his  will,  a  saint  at  last 
against  his  will  —  and  now  a  saint  no  more.  That  was, 
perhaps,  the  key  to  the  whole  matter.  A  good  man 
prays  to  be  no  longer  good.  His  prayer  is  granted.  His 
grievous  desire  is  fulfilled.  And  then  he  may  pray  for- 
ever in  vain  to  be  as  he  once  was.  Yet  the  change  in 
Valentine  was  more  even  than  this,  more  than  the  gliding 
from  white  purity  to  black  sin.     There  was  something. 

As  Cuckoo  and  the  doctor  sat  in  silence,  she  staring 
vacantly  and  empty  of  thought,  being  now  utterly  and 
chaotically  puzzled,  he  thinking  deeply,  the  door  bell 
rang.  In  a  moment  Mrs.  Brigg  appeared,  went  to 
Cuckoo  and  muttered  in  her  ear: 

"Mr.  Haddison  wants  to  come  in.  I  told  him  you 
was  busy." 

"Oh,"  said  Cuckoo,  "I  say  —  wait, "and  then  to  the 
doctor,  "  It 's  him.     It's  Julian." 

"  Let  him  in,"  the  doctor  said  quickly. 

To  see  Cuckoo  and  Julian  together  might  tell  him 
much. 

Julian  came  in,  stumbling  rather  heavily  at  the  en- 
trance of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  VI 

CLEAR  WEATHER 

**  Damn  that  mat!  "  he  exclaimed.  "  I  say,  Cuckoo, 
who  the  — ?  "  The  question  faded  on  his  lips  as  he  saw 
Doctor  Levillier,  on  whom  he  gazed  with  a  vacant  sur- 
prise that,  added  to  the  unsteadiness  of  his  movement 
upon  them,  spoke  his  condition  very  plainly. 

"You,  doctor!  Well,  I'm  damned!  What  are  you 
here  for?  " 

"To  see  Miss  Bright,"  the  doctor  said,  coolly. 

He  had  pushed  forward  a  chair  quickly  with  his  foot. 
Julian  collapsed  in  it  by  the  table.  Beads  of  the  fog  lay 
all  over  his  long  greatcoat  and  upon  his  hat,  which  he 
had  not  yet  taken  off.      His  face  was  flushed  and  dull. 

"It 's  an  infernal  evening,"  he  said.  "You  doctor- 
ing Cuckoo,  eh?  " 

"  I  have  been  talking  to  Miss  Bright." 

"  Oh,  all  right.  I  don't  mind.  Cuckoo,  help  me  oft 
with  this  coat.     There  's  a  good  girl." 

She  obeyed  without  a  word.  When  the  coat  was  off 
Julian  threw  himself  back  in  the  chair  and  heaved  a  long 
sigh.  His  hat  fell  onto  the  floor  with  a  bang,  but  he 
did  not  seem  to  notice  it.  His  face  was  moody  and 
miserable. 

"  Molly  's  thrown  me  over,"  he  said. 

Cuckoo  caught  her  breath  sharply  and  stole  a  glance 
at  the  doctor. 

"  Have  some  tea?  "  she  said. 

"No;  a  brandy  and  soda. " 

"  Have  n't  got  it.     You  must  do  with  tea." 

She  rang  the  bell  and  ordered  it  despite  his  grum- 
blings. Mrs.  Brigg  made  no  difficulty.  Julian  had  long 
ago  soothed  her  delicate  susceptibilities  with  gold. 

362 


CLEAR   WEATHER  363 

So,  Cuckoo,  oddly  shy  and  excited,  made  tea  for  the 
doctor  and  Julian.  The  tea  cleared  the  latter's  fogged 
brain  a  little,  but  he  was  still  morose  and  self-centred. 
He  had  evidently  come  to  pour  some  woes  out  to  Cuckoo 
and  was  restrained  by  the  presence  of  the  doctor,  at 
whom  he  looked  from  time  to  time  with  an  expression 
that  was  near  to  disfavour.  But  the  doctor  began  to 
chat  easily  and  cordially,  and  Julian  gradually  thawed. 

"  I  suppose  you  know  Rip  's  dead,"  he  said  presently. 
"Went  out  the  other  night  and  got  frozen  in  the  snow. 
Poor  little  beggar.     Val  's  awfully  cut  up  about  it." 

"Is  he?"  said  the  doctor. 

"Yes.  Dear  old  Val.  Dev'lish  hard  Rip's  never 
making  it  up  with  him  again,  was  n't  it?  Rip  did  n't 
know  a  good  fellow,  did  he,  doctor?" 

"  He  was  devoted  to  Valentine  once,"  the  doctor  said. 

"Ah,  but  he  changed.  Dogs  are  just  like  women, 
just  like  women,  never  the  same  two  days  together. 
Curse  them." 

He  appeared  to  have  forgotten  Cuckoo's  presence, 
and  she  sat  listening  eagerly,  quite  unmoved  by  the  dag- 
ger thrust  at  her  sex. 

"Dogs  don't  usually  change.  Their  faithfulness 
bears  everything  without  breaking." 

"Except  a  trance,  then,"  Julian  said,  still  with  a 
wavering  in-and-out  stolidity,  at  the  same  time  mourn- 
ful and  almost  ludicrous. 

"  That  trance  did  for  Rip;  did  for  him,  I  tell  you. 
He  never  knew  poor  old  Val  again.  As  if  he  thought 
him  another  man  after  that,  another  man." 

The  doctor's  eyes  met  Cuckoo's.  She  had  a  teacup 
at  her  rouged  lips,  and  had  paused  in  the  act  of  drink- 
ing, fascinated  by  the  words  that  wound  so  naturally  into 
the  legend  of  change  which  she  knew  and  knew  not. 

"As  if  Val  was  n't  just  the  same,"  Julian  pursued, 
shaking  his  head  slowly.      "Just  the  same." 

"You  think  so? "  the  doctor  said,  quickly. 

"Eh?" 

"You  think  that  trance  made  no  difference  to  him?" 

"Why,  how  should  it?" 

Cuckoo  drank  her  tea  hastily  and  put  the  cup  down. 


364  FLAMES 

'*  How  should  it?  "  Julian  repeated,  as  if  with  a  heavy 
challenge. 

*'  It  might  in  many  ways,  to  his  health — " 

"He  's  stronger  than  ever  he  was." 

"  Or  to  his  mind,  his  nature.  You  see  no  change  there 
that  might  have  frightened  Rip?" 

**  Not  I.  He  's  more  of  a  man,  good  old  Val,  even 
than  he  was." 

"Ah!     You  acknowledge  there  is  a  change." 

"Give  me  some  more  tea.  Cuckoo,"  Julian  said, 
thrusting  his  cup  towards  her.  "  Make  it  strong.  It  's 
picking  me  up."  He  sat  forward  in  his  chair  and  began 
to  light  a  cigar,  keeping  his  eyes  on  the  doctor. 

"Well,  if  you  call  that  a  change;  to  get  like  other 
men.  Old  Val  was  a  saint.  I  loved  him  then,  but  I 
love  him  ten  times  more  now  he  's — a — the  other  thing, 
you  know.  Ten  times  more.  He  knows  the  world  now, 
and  his  advice  is  worth  having.  I  'd  follow  him  any- 
where. He  can't  go  wrong.  Takes  care  of  himself,  and 
of  me  too.  I  might  have  been  anything  —  anything,  but 
for  him.      Instead  of  what  I  am  —  " 

He  drew  himself  up  with  some  pride,  and  pulled  at 
the  cup  which  Cuckoo  pushed  towards  him. 

"  I  'm  just  what  Val  makes  me;  just  what  he  makes 
me,"  he  said,  taking  obvious  joy  in  the  thought.  "Val 
can  make  me  do  anything.     You  know  that,  doctor?  " 

"Yes.  Then  you  have  changed  with  him,  become 
more  of  a  man,  as  you  call  it,  with  him.  Is  that  so, 
Julian?  " 

"  I  suppose  so." 

Julian  was  drinking  his  tea,  which  had  become  very 
strong  from  standing. 

"  And  are  you  happier  than  you  were  before?  " 

The  doctor  spoke  insistently  and  gravely.  Cuckoo 
had  taken  Jessie  onto  her  lap  and  now  stroked  the  little 
dog  quickly  and  softly  with  a  thin,  fluttering  hand. 
Julian  seemed  trying  to  think,  to  dive  into  his  mind  and 
discover  its  real  feelings. 

"  I  suppose  so,"  he  said  presently.  "But  who's 
happy?  I  should  like  to  know.  Cuckoo  isn't.  Are 
you,  Cuckoo?  " 


CLEAR   WEATHER  365 

It  seemed  a  cruel  question,  addressed  to  that  spectre 
of  girlhood. 

"Idunno,"  she  answered  swiftly.  **  It  don't  matter 
much  either  way." 

"She  may  be,"  the  doctor  said.  "And  you  were 
happy,  Julian." 

The  tea  had  certainly  cleared  the  boy's  brain.  His 
manner  was  more  sensible,  and  the  heavy  sensuality  had 
gone  from  his  eyes.  Though  he  still  looked  haggard 
and  wretched,  he  was  no  longer  the  mere  wreck  of  vice 
he  had  seemed  when  he  drifted  into  the  little  room  out 
of  the  fog. 

"Was  I?  "  he  said  slowly.  "It  seems  a  devil  of  a 
time  ago." 

The  doctor's  heart  warmed  to  these  two  young 
creatures,  children  to  him,  yet  who  had  seen  so  much, 
gone  so  far  down  into  the  depths  that  lie  beneath  the 
feet  of  life.  He  thought  in  that  moment  that  he  could 
willingly  give  up  all  his  own  peace  of  mind,  success,  fame, 
restfulness  of  heart,  to  set  them  straight  up,  face  to 
face  with  strength  and  purity  once  more.  One  was 
well  born,  educated,  still  handsome,  the  other  a  so-called 
lost  woman,  and  originally  only  a  very  poor  and  hope- 
lessly ignorant  girl.  Yet  their  community  of  misery  and 
sojTow  put  them  side  by  side,  like  two  children  who 
gather  violets  in  a  lane  together,  or  drown  together  in 
some  strong,  sad  river. 

"It  is  not  so  long,  Julian,"  he  said.  "  Only  before 
Valentine's  trance." 

Julian  caught  him  up  quickly. 

"  Why  d*  you  say  that,  doctor?  " 

"Why?     Simply  because  it  is  truth. " 

"You're  always  at  that  trance.  I  believe  it's  just 
because  you  told  us  not  to  sit  again.  But  there  was  no 
harm  done." 

"  You  are  sure  of  that  ?  " 

As  he  put  the  question  the  doctor's  mind  was  on  a 
hunt  round  that  sleep  and  waking.  He  had  gradually 
come  to  think  that  night  a  night  of  some  strange  crisis, 
through  which  Valentine  had  passed  from  what  he  had 
been  to  what  he  was.     Yet  his  knowledge  could  not  set 


366  FLAMES 

at  the  door  of  that  unnatural  slumber  the  blame  of  all  that 
followed  it.  His  imagination  might,  but  not  his  knowl- 
edge. He  wondered  whether  Julian  might  not  help  him 
to  elucidation. 

"Sure?  of  course!  Why  not?  Valentine's  all  right. 
I  'm  all  right.  Rip  's  the  only  one  gone.  And  if  he  'd 
only  stayed  in  the  house  that  night  he  'd  be  all  right 
too.  " 

"No,  Addison." 

Julian  stared  at  this  flat  contradiction, 

"Not?" 

"  Rip  never  went  out  of  the  house." 

"  But  he  died  in  the  snow." 

*'  No,"  the  doctor  said  quietly.  "  He  died  in  your 
dining-room,  of  fear  —  fear  of  his  old  master,  Valentine. ' ' 

"What?"  said  Julian,  gripping  the  table  with  his 
right  hand.      "  Val  had  been  at  him?  " 

In  two  or  three  simple,  straightforward  words,  the 
doctor  described  the  death  of  Rip.  When  he  had  fin- 
ished Cuckoo  gave  a  little  cry,  and  clasped  the  astonished 
and  squirming  Jessie  close  in  her  arms.  Julian's  brow 
clouded. 

"He  might  have  left  Rip  alone,"  he  said.  "It's 
odd  dogs  can't  bear  Val  now." 

"  Again  since  that  trance,"  the  doctor  said. 

Julian  looked  at  him  with  acute  irritation,  but  said 
nothing.  Then,  turning  his  eyes  on  Cuckoo,  who  was 
still  hugging  Jessie,  he  snapped  his  fingers  at  the  little 
dog  and  called  its  name.  Cuckoo  extended  her  arms, 
holding  Jessie,  to  Julian,  and  he  took  the  small  creature 
gently.  And  as  he  took  her  he  bent  forward  and  gazed 
long  and  deeply  into  Cuckoo's  eyes.  She  trembled  and 
flushed,  half  with  pleasure,  half  with  a  nervous  conscious- 
ness of  the  doctor's  presence. 

"  Oh,  why  do  you?  "  she  murmured,  turning  her  head 
away.  The  action  seemed  to  make  Julian  aware  that 
perhaps  his  manner  was  odd,  and  his  subsequent  glance 
at  the  doctor  was  very  plainly,  and  even  rudely,  ex- 
planatory of  a  wish  to  be  alone  with  Cuckoo.  The  doctor 
read  its  meaning  and  resolved  to  go  away.  With  the 
quick  observation  and   knowledge  of   men  which   long 


CLEAR   WEATHER  367 

years  of  training  had  given  to  him,  he  saw  that,  strangely 
enough,  the  only  creature  whose  influence  could  in  any 
way  cope  with  the  influence  of  Valentine  was  not  him- 
self, who  once  had  been  as  a  seer  to  the  two  young  men, 
but  the  thin,  spectral,  weary,  painted  Cuckoo.  There, 
in  that  small  room,  with  the  long  murmur  of  London 
outside,  sat  these  two  human  beings,  desolate  woman, 
vice-ridden  man,  both  fallen  down  in  the  deep  mire, 
both  almost  whelmed  in  the  flood  of  Fate.  And  he  stood 
strong,  faithful,  clean-souled,  brave-hearted,  yet  im- 
potent, regarding  them.  For  some  power  willed  it  that 
misery  alone  could  hold  out  a  helping  hand  to  misery, 
that  vice  and  degradation  must  rise  to  thrust  back  vice 
and  degradation.  The  fallen  creature  was  to  be  the 
protector,  the  unredeemed  to  be  the  redeemer.  Doctor 
Levillier  knew  this  when  he  saw  Julian's  long  glance  into 
the  hollow  eyes  of  Cuckoo.  And  he  thrilled  with  the 
knowledge.  It  seemed  to  him  a  great  demonstration  of 
the  root,  the  core,  of  divine  pity  which  he  believed  to  be 
the  centre  of  the  scheme  of  the  world.  Round  this 
centre  revolved  wheels  within  wheels  of  cruelty,  of 
agony,  of  ruthless  passions  and  of  lawless  bitterness. 
Yet  they  radiated  from  pity.  They  radiated  from  love. 
How  it  was  so  he  could  not  tell,  and  there  the  pessimist 
had  him  by  the  throat.  But  that  it  was  so  he  felt  in  his 
inmost  heart,  and  never  more  than  now,  when  the  tired 
boy  sneered  at  him,  who  was  an  old  friend,  clean  of 
life,  gentle  of  nature,  and  turned  to  this  girl,  this  thing 
that  loathsome  men  played  with  and  scorned.  Cuckoo 
flushed  and  trembled;  this  divine  pity  outpainted  her 
rouge,  and  shook  that  body  which  had  so  often  betrayed 
itself  to  destroyers.  This  divine  pity  gave  to  her,  who 
had  lost  all,  the  power  to  find  freedom  for  another  soul 
that  lay  in  bondage. 

The  doctor  gazed  for  an  instant  at  the  boy  and  girl, 
and  was  deeply  moved.  His  lips  breathed  a  word  that 
was  a  prayer,  for  Julian,  for  the  lady  of  the  feathers. 

Then  he  got  up. 

*'  I  have  to  go,"  he  said. 

Julian  said  nothing;  Cuckoo  flushed  again,  and 
accompanied  the  doctor  to  the  hall  door.     When  she 


368  FLAMES 

had  opened  it,  and  they  looked  out,  it  was  very  cold, 
but  the  fog  had  lifted,  and  was  floating  away  to  reveal  a 
sky  full  of  stars,  which  always  seem  to  shine  more 
brightly  upon  frost.     The  doctor  took  the  girl's  hand. 

"  I  see  you  in  clear  weather,"  he  said. 

"You  do  n't  —  you  do  n't  think  as  he  '11  —  as  I  '11 —  " 
stammered  Cuckoo,  glancing  awkwardly  towards  the 
lighted  doorway  of  the  little  sitting-room,  and  then  at 
the  doctor.  The  church  clock  striking  7  :3o  pointed  the 
application  of  the  hesitating  murmur.  It  was  uncon- 
ventionally late  for  an  afternoon  call. 

"  It  '11  be  all  right,  you  know  that?  "  said  the  lady  of 
the  feathers. 

"Yes,  I  know  that,"  he  answered.  "You  have  to 
fight,  I  feel  that;  only  you  can  do  it.  You  have  to  fight 
this  —  this — "  and  here  the  doctor's  loyalty  spoke,  for 
he  could  not  betray  even  this  new  Valentine, — "this 
strange  madness  of  Valentine's.  Pit  your  will  against 
his,  and  conquer  for  Julian's  sake." 

"Will,"  said  Cuckoo.  "  That 's  what  he  says  I  can't 
have." 

"Won't  you  pray  to  have  it  given  you?"  said  the 
little  doctor. 

Cuckoo  looked  at  him,  wondering.     Then  she  said: 

"  I  believe  I  could  fight  better  'n  pray." 

"Sometimes  battle  is  the  greatest  of  all  prayers," 
said  the  doctor. 

The  iron  gate  clicked.  He  was  gone.  Cuckoo  cast 
an  oblique  glance  up  at  the  stars  before  she  shut  the 
door,  and  retraced  her  steps  down  the  passage. 


CHAPTER  VII 

BATTLE  ARRAY 

When  Julian  left  the  Marylebone  Road  that  night  it 
was  nearly  ten  o'clock.  He  was  quite  sober,  and  looked 
preternaturally  grave  as  he  opened  the  little  gate  and 
stepped  out  into  the  frost-bound  street.  In  the  lighted 
aperture  of  the  doorway  behind  him  Cuckoo  stood  like  a 
shadow  half  revealed  peeping  after  him,  and  he  turned 
and  waved  his  hand  to  her.  Then  he  walked  away 
slowly,  meditating.  That  night  the  fight  for  the  pos- 
session of  his  will,  his  soul,  had  begun  in  deadly  earnest. 
He  did  not  know  it,  yet  he  was  vaguely  aware  that  he 
began  to  move  in  the  midst  of  unwonted  circumstances. 
Cuckoo  had  not  been  able  wholly  to  conceal  from  him 
her  strong  mental  excitement.  Since  her  conversation 
with  the  doctor  she  had  become  a  different  woman.  For 
the  one  word  had  been  spoken  which  could  change  weak- 
ness into  strength,  utter  self-distrust  into  something 
that  at  least  resembled  self-reliance.  The  doctor  had 
broken  Valentine's  spell  over  Cuckoo  with  that  word. 
He  believed  in  her.  He  told  her  to  fight.  He  assumed 
that  she  had  some  power,  even  more  power  for  Julian 
than  he  had.  "  Only  you  can  do  it,"  he  had  said.  The 
sentence  armed  her  from  head  to  foot,  put  weapons  in 
her  hands,  light  in  her  hollow  eyes,  a  leaping  exultation 
in  her  heart.  The  flickering  power  that  she  had  mar- 
velled at,  and  then  despaired  of,  burnt  up  at  last  into  a 
strong  flame.  That  evening  it  had  dazzled  Julian's 
eyes.  He  seemed  to  see  a  new  Cuckoo,  and  he  was 
thinking  of  her  as  he  walked  along  now  in  the  frost 
under  the  stars.  His  meditation  was  not  very  intellec- 
tual or  very  profound,  for  since  the  change  in  his  life 
Julian  had  put  his  old  intellectualities  away  from  him. 
Passion,  so  long  guarded,  so  bravely  repressed,  once  it 

36q 


370  FLAMES 

had  brc^ten  loose  stormed  all  the  heights  of  his  nature, 
and  drove  every  sentiment  that  tried  to  oppose  it  into 
exile.  The  animalism  that  is  so  generally  present  in  a 
boy  physically  strong  took  possession  of  him,  and  would 
not  tolerate  any  divided  allegiance.  It  declined  to  per- 
mit his  life  to  be  a  thing  of  mingled  enjoyments,  now 
rejoicing  in  the  leaping  desires  of  the  body,  now  disre- 
garding them  for  the  aspirations  and  clear  contentments 
of  the  mind.  It  seemed  vengeful,  like  a  man  long  kept 
fasting  against  his  will,  and  having  at  last  come  into  its 
empire  made  that  empire  an  autocracy,  a  tyranny. 
Julian  had  passed  at  a  step  from  one  extreme  to  another, 
and  had  already  so  lost  the  habit  of  following  any  men- 
tal process  to  a  conclusion  that  he  could  no  longer  think 
clearly  with  ease,  or  observe  himself  with  any  acuteness. 
He  was  for  the  time  all  body,  knew  his  muscles,  his 
flesh,  his  limbs,  like  intimates:  his  mind  only  distantly, 
like  a  stranger.  With  passion,  with  greed,  he  had  seized 
on  all  those  pleasures  which  he  had  previously  feared 
and  shunned,  until  his  brain  was  heavy  as  is  the  brain  of 
a  glutton  and  a  drunkard,  and  his  mind  stepped  in  any 
direction  with  a  languid  lethargy.  So  to-night  he  had 
the  face  of  a  man  puzzled  as  he  walked  in  the  frost  under 
the  stars. 

Once  the  hint  of  some  power  lurking  in  Cuckoo  had 
thrilled  and  awed  him,  as  only  a  certain  clearness  —  a 
certain  receptive,  appreciative  clearness  —  can  be 
thrilled  and  awed.  Now  the  abrupt  development  of 
that  power  almost  distressed,  because  it  confused  him. 
He  had  gone  down  lower  in  the  interval  between  the  two 
possibilities  of  sensation. 

**What  the  devil  's  come  over  Cuckoo?"  so  ran  his 
thought  with  a  schoolboy  gait.  That  something  had 
come  over  her  he  recognized.  She  was  no  longer  the 
girl  he  had  stared  at  in  Piccadilly,  the  creature  he  had 
pitied  in  the  twilight  hour  of  their  first  friendly  inter- 
view. Nor  was  she  the  woman  whose  soul  he  had  in- 
jured by  his  cruel  whim,  the  woman  who  had  beaten 
him  with  reproaches,  and  made  him  for  an  instant  almost 
ashamed  of  his  lusts.  All  these  humanities  perhaps 
slept,  or  woke,  in  her  still.     Yet  it  was  not  they  which 


BATTLE    ARRAY  371 

heavily  concerned  him  on  his  way  to  the  Marble  Arch. 
There  is  a  vitality  about  power  of  whatever  kind  that 
makes  itself  instantly  felt,  even  when  it  is  not  under- 
stood, even  when  it  is  neither  beloved  nor  appreciated. 
Julian  was  confused  by  his  dull  and  sudden  recognition 
of  power  in  Cuckoo.  No  longer  did  it  flash  upon  him, 
a  mystery  of  flame  in  her  eyes,  moving  him  to  the  awe 
and  the  constraint  that  a  man  may  feel  at  sight  of  an 
unearthly  thing,  a  phantom,  or  a  vision  of  the  night. 
(He  had  looked  for  the  flame  in  her  eyes,  and  he  had  not 
found  it.)  But  it  glowed  upon  him  more  steadily,  with 
a  warmth  of  humanity,  of  something  inherent,  rooted, 
not  detached,  and  merely  for  the  moment  and  as  if  by 
chance  prisoned  in  some  particular  place,  from  which  at 
a  breath  it  might  escape.  It  drew  him  to  Cuckoo,  and 
at  the  same  time  it  slightly  repelled  him,  the  latter  — 
though  Julian  did  not  know  it  —  by  the  sharp  abruptness 
of  its  novelty.  For  the  doctor  had  lit  a  blaze  of  strength 
in  the  girl  by  a  word.  Julian's  eyes  were  dazzled  by  the 
blaze.  Custom  might  teach  them  to  face  it  more  calmly. 
At  present  he  could  look  at  the  stars  with  greater  ease. 
Indeed,  as  he  walked,  he  did  look  at  them,  and  thought 
of  the  eyes  of  Cuckoo,  and  then  of  the  eyes  of  all 
women,  and  of  their  strange  intensities  of  suggestion 
and  of  realization,  of  their  language  of  the  devil  and  of 
the  clouds,  of  their  kindling  vigours.  But  the  eyes  of 
Cuckoo  were  no  longer  as  the  eyes  of  any  other  woman. 
Julian  glanced  at  a  girl  who  watched  him  from  the  cor- 
ner of  the  street.  He  knew  that  Cuckoo  looked  each 
night  at  men  as  that  girl  looked  at  him.  He  knew  it, 
yet  he  felt  that  he  did  not  believe  it.  For  to  him  she  was 
dressed  already  in  the  fillet  of  some  priestess,  in  the  robes 
of  one  tending  some  strange  and  unnamed  altar.  She 
woke  in  him  a  little  of  the  uneasy  fear  and  uneasy  attrac- 
tion that  a  creature  whom  a  man  feels  to  be  greater  than 
himself  often  wakes  in  him.  That  evening,  while  Julian 
sat  with  her,  he  had  been  seized  with  curious  conflicting 
desires  to  fall  before  her  or  to  strike  her,  to  draw  her 
close  or  to  fend  her  off  from  him,  all  dull,  too,  and 
vague  as  in  heaviness  of  dreaming.  Those  feelings, 
vague  in  the  house,  were  scarcely  clearer  in  the  cold  and 


372  FLAMES 

in  the  open  spaces  of  the  night,  and  Julian  was  conscious 
of  a  sense  of  irritation,  of  anger  against  himself.  He 
felt  as  if  he  were  an  oaf,  a  lout.  Was  it,  could  it  be, 
Cuckoo  who  had  made  him  feel  so?  After  all,  what  was 
she?  Julian  tried  to  hug  and  soothe  himself  in  the  un- 
worthy remembrance  of  Cuckoo's  monotonous  life  and 
piteous  deeds,  to  reinstate  himself  in  contented  animal- 
ism by  thoughts  of  the  animalism  of  this  priestess!  He 
laughed  aloud  under  the  stars,  but  the  laugh  rang  hol- 
low. He  could  not  reinstate  himself.  He  could  only 
wearily  repeat,  "  What  the  devil 's  come  over  Cuckoo?  " 
with  an  iteration  of  dull,  moody  petulance. 

A  hansom  suddenly  pulled  up  beside  him  and  a  voice 
called : 

"Julian!     Julian,  where  are  you  coming  from?  " 

It  was  Valentine.  He  was  muffled  in  a  fur  coat,  and 
stretched  himself  over  the  wooden  apron  to  attract  his 
friend's  attention. 

"  I  have  been  to  your  rooms,"  he  continued.  "  Don't 
you  remember  we  had  arranged  to  dine  together?  " 

Julian  looked  at  him  without  animation. 

"I  had  forgotten  it,"  he  answered. 

'*  Your  memory  is  becoming  very  treacherous,"  Val- 
entine said.  "Where  are  you  off  to?  Get  in.  I  will 
drive  you." 

"I  had  n't  any  plan,"  Julian  said,  getting  into  the 
cab. 

'*  Drive  to  the  Savoy, "  Valentine  called  to  the  cab- 
man.     "  I  want  some  supper,"  he  added. 

"  I  can  't  come  in.     I  'm  not  dressed. " 

"We  will  have  a  private  room,  then.  Have  you 
dined? " 

"I?     No." 

Valentine  looked  at  him  narrowly. 

"  Have  you  been  in  the  Marylebone  Road  again?" 
he  asked. 

"  Yes." 

"Why?" 

"I  don't  know." 

The  answer  was  the  bald  truth.  In  making  it  Julian 
experienced  a  slight  feeling  of  relief.     He  was  putting 


BATTLE    ARRAY  373 

into  words  the  vagueness  that  perplexed  him.  He  won- 
dered why  he  did  go  to  see  Cuckoo. 

"  But  you  must  know.  You  must  have  a  reason," 
said  Valentine. 

"If  I  have  I  don't  know  what  it  is.  I  wish  you 
would  tell  me,  old  fellow." 

*'I  can't  supply  you  with  reasons  for  all  your  ac- 
tions." 

*'And  I  can't  supply  myself  with  reasons  for  any  of 
them,"  Julian  said  slowly.  The  words  were  leading  him 
to  a  dawning  wonder  at  his  own  way  of  life,  a  dawning 
desire  to  know  if  there  were  really  any  reasons  for  the 
things  he  did.  But  Valentine  did  not  accept  the  reply 
as  satisfactory.  On  the  contrary,  it  evidently  irritated 
him  still  more,  for  he  said  with  unusual  warmth: 

"  Your  reason  for  dropping  your  engagements,  throw- 
ing me  over  and  wasting  my  evenings  is  quite  obvious. 
The  blessed  damozel  of  the  feathers  is  attractive  to  you. 
Her  freshness  captivates  you.  Her  brilliant  conversation 
entertains  you.  She  is  the  powdered  and  painted  reason 
of  these  irrelevant  escapades." 

"Don't  sneer  at  her,  Val. " 

The  words  came  quickly,  like  a  bolt.  Valentine 
frowned,  and  a  deepening  suspicion  flashed  in  his  eyes. 

"  I  did  not  think  you  were  so  easily  flattered,"  he 
continued. 

"Flattered?" 

"Yes.  Cuckoo  Bright  admires  you,  and  you  go  to 
number  400  to  smell  the  rather  rank  fumes  of  the  in- 
cense which  she  burns  at  your  shrine." 

"  Nonsense!  "  Julian  cried  warmly. 

"What  other  reason  can  you  have?  She  has  no 
beauty;  she  has  no  conversation,  no  gaiety,  no  distinc- 
tion, no  manners — she  has  nothing.     She  is  nothing." 

"Ah,  it 's  there  you 're  wrong. " 

"Wrong!  " 

"When  you  say  she  is  nothing." 

"  I  say  it  again,"  Valentine  reiterated  almost  fiercely. 
"The  lady  of  the  feathers  is  nothing,  nothing  at  all. 
God  and  the  devil — they  have  completely  forgotten  her. 
A  creature  like  that  is  neither  good,  nor  would  I  call  her 


374  FLAMES 

really  evil,  for  she  is  evil  merely  that  she  may  go  on  liv- 
ing, not  because  she  has  a  fine  pleasure  in  sin.  But  if 
you  sell  your  will  for  bread  and  butter,  you  slip  out  of  the 
world,  the  world  that  must  be  reckoned  with.  I  say, 
Cuckoo  Bright  is  nothing." 

"And  I  tell  you  she  is  something  extraordinary." 

As  Julian  spoke  the  words  the  cab  stopped  at  the 
Savoy.  Valentine  sprang  out  and  paid  the  man.  His 
face  was  flushed  as  if  with  heat,  despite  the  piercing  cold 
of  the  night. 

"A  private  room  and  supper  for  two,"  he  said  to  the 
man  in  the  vestibule.  "Take  my  coat, "  and  he  drew 
himself  with  obvious  relief  from  the  embrace  of  his  huge 
coat.  Julian  and  he  said  nothing  more  until  they  were 
sitting  opposite  to  one  another  at  a  small  oval  table  in  a 
small  and  strongly  decorated  room,  whose  windows  faced 
the  Thames  Embankment.  The  waiter  uncorked  a  bottle 
of  champagne  with  the  air  of  one  performing  a  religious 
rite.  The  electric  light  gleamed  and  a  fire  chased  the 
frost  from  recollection.  Julian  had  already  forgotten 
what  they  had  been  talking  about  in  the  cab.  The  first 
sip  of  champagne  swept  the  heavy  meditativeness  from 
him.  But  Valentine,  unfolding  his  napkin  slowly,  and 
with  his  eyes  on  the  menu,  said : 

"  In  what  way  is  she  something  extraordinary?  " 

"  H'm?  "  Julian  muttered. 

"  Surely  you  can  define  it," 

"What,  Val?" 

"  The  peculiarity  of  Cuckoo  Bright  that  you  laid  so 
much  stress  on  just  now." 

"Oh,  yes,  now  I  remember.  No,  I  can't  define  it. 
How  good  this  soup  is.     The  soup  here — " 

"Yes,  yes;  our  coming  here  again  and  again  to  eat 
it  proves  our  appreciation.  Julian,  do  endeavour  to  an- 
swer my  question.  I  am  really  interested  to  know  exactly 
what  it  is  that  has  taken  you  again  to  Marylebone 
Road." 

Julian  drank  some  more  champagne.  His  eyes  began 
to  sparkle. 

"Can  you  give  a  reason  for  everything  you  do?"  he 
asked. 


BATTLE   ARRAY  375 

"I  think  I  certainly  could  for  every  act  that  I  reit- 
erate. ' ' 

"Then  you  're  built  differently  from  me.  But  I  've 
told  you  all  I  can.  I  like  Cuckoo.  She  's  a  damned 
nice  girl." 

Valentine's  lip  curled. 

"I  can  't   agree  with  you,  Julian." 

"You  don't  know  her  as  I  do." 

"Not  quite." 

Julian  reddened. 

"Come,  now,"  he  began,  and  then  checked  himself 
and  laughed  good-naturedly.  "You  can't  play  the  saint 
any  more,  you  know,  Val,"  he  said. 

"I  have  no  wish  to.  I  discovered  long  ago  that  a 
saint  is  only  the  corpse  of  a  man,  not  a  living  man  at 
all.     But  we  are  talking  about  this  corpse  of  a  woman." 

"  Cuckoo  's  no  corpse.  By  Jove,  no.  I  believe  she  's 
got  a  power  that  no  other  woman  has." 

"  How  so?  You  have  n't  been  imagining  that  absurd 
flame  in  her  eyes  again?  " 

Valentine  spoke  with  furtive  uneasiness.  He  was 
scarcely  eating  or  drinking,  but  Julian  was  doing  ample 
justice  to  the  wine,  and  displayed  a  very  tolerable  appe- 
tite. He  lifted  his  glass  to  his  lips  and  put  it  down 
before  he  answered: 

"  No.     It 's  gone." 

Valentine  seemed  relieved. 

"Of  course.  I  knew  it  was  an  hallucination.  You 
went  to  satisfy  yourself,  I  suppose.     And  now — " 

"  Since  it 's  gone  Cuckoo  seems  to  me — I  do  n't  know — 
changed  somehow.  Val,  there  must  be  a  few  people  in 
the  world  with  great  power  over  others.  You  are  one. 
Marr  was  another,  and — "     He  paused. 

"And  what?  "  Valentine  said  rather  loudly. 

"Well,"  Julian  paused  again,  as  if  conscious  that  he 
was  about  to  say  something  that  would  seem  ridiculous, 
"Cuckoo — " 

"  Is  a  third!  You  think  it  reasonable  to  bracket  me 
with  a  woman  like  that,  to  compare  my  will,  mine,  who 
have  lived  the  life  of  thought  as  well  as  the  life  of  action, 
who  have  trained  my  powers  to  the  highest  point,  and 


376  FLAMES 

offered  up  sacrifices — yes,  sacrifices — to  my  will,  to  that 
degraded,  powerless  creature!     Julian!  " 

He  stopped,  clenching  his  hand  as  it  lay  upon  the 
table.  Never  before  had  Julian  seen  him  so  profoundly 
moved.  All  his  normal  calm  and  selt-possession  seemed 
deserting  him.  His  lips  worked  like  those  of  a  man  in 
the  very  extremity  of  rage,  and  the  red  glow  in  his  cheeks 
faded  into  the  grey  of  suppressed  passion.  Julian  was 
utterly  taken  aback  by  such  an  exhibition  of  feeling. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  he  stammered,  "I  didn't  mean — 
I  had  no  idea — " 

"You  did  mean  that.  You  do.  And  I — I  have  been 
fool  enough  to  believe  that  you  relied  upon  me,  on  my 
judgment;  that  you  looked  up  to  me;  that — good  God, 
how  absurd!  " 

He  lay  back  in  his  chair  and  burst  into  a  paroxysm 
of  loud  and  mirthless  laughter,  while  Julian,  holding  his 
champagne-glass  between  his  fingers,  and  twisting  it 
stealthily  round  and  round,  regarded  him  with  a  blank 
stare  of  utter  confusion  and  perplexity.  Valentine  con- 
tinued to  laugh  so  long  that  it  seemed  as  if  he  were 
seized  in  the  grip  of  a  horrible  hysteria.  But  just  as  the 
situation  was  becoming  actually  intolerable,  he  suddenly 
controlled  himself  with  an  obvious  and  painful  effort. 
After  remaining  perfectly  silent  for  two  or  three  minutes, 
he  said,  in  a  voice  that  struggled  to  be  calm  and  suc- 
ceeded in  bemg  icy: 

"  Julian,  you  have  torn  the  veil  of  the  Holy  of  Holies 
from  the  top  to  the  bottom  with  a  vengeance.  But  why 
have  you  kept  up  the  deception  so  long,  when,  after  all, 
there  was  nothing  behind  the  veil?  That  was  surely  un- 
necessary." 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you,  Val?  I  don't  under- 
stand you." 

"Nor  I  you.  And  yet  we  say  that  we  are  intimate 
friends.     There  *s  an  irony." 

At  this  point  the  waiter  came  in  with  an  omelette,  and 
the  conversation  ceased,  checked  by  his  peripatetic  pres- 
ence. As  soon  as  he  had  retreated,  with  all  the  hushed 
activity  of  a  mute  rolling  on  casters,  Julian  exclaimed: 

"It's   not  an   irony.     You   choose   to  make   it  so. 


BATTLE    ARRAY  377 

You  *re  not  yourself  to-night,  Valentine.  I  do  not  com- 
pare you  with  poor  Cuckoo.  How  could  I?  She  's  down 
in  the  dirt  and  you  are  far  away  from  the  dirt.  And  of 
course  your  power  over  any  one  must  be  a  thousand 
times  greater  than  hers." 

"If  it  came  to  a  battle?  If  it  came  to  a  battle?" 
interrupted  Valentine.      "You  say  that,  Julian?" 

"A  battle!  of  what?  " 

"Of  wills,  naturally,  Cuckoo  Bright's  will  against 
mine?" 

"But  what  a  strange  idea — " 

"  You  have  n't  answered  my  question." 

"Because  I  do  n't  see  the  force  of  it." 

"Answer  it  nevertheless." 

"  Then  Cuckoo  would  be  beaten  at  once,"  Julian  said. 
But  there  was  no  ring  of  conviction  in  his  voice,  and  he 
fell  at  once  into  silence  after  he  had  spoken  the  words. 
Valentine  saw  by  his  frowning  face  and  puckered  fore- 
head that  the  idea  of  such  a  battle  had  set  in  motion  a 
train  of  thought  in  his  mind. 

"You  are  wondering,  Julian,"  Valentine  said. 

Julian  looked  up. 

"Who  doesn't  wonder  in  this  beastly  world? "  he 
said  morosely. 

"  I  never  do.  I  prefer  to  act.  Drink  some  more 
champagne? " 

He  pushed  the  bottle  over  and  went  on: 

"You  are  wondering  why  I  spoke  of  a  battle  between 
Cuckoo  Bright  and  me.  Well,  I  '11  tell  you.  I  spoke 
because  I  see  that  there  is  to  be  such  a  battle." 

Julian  drank  his  champagne  and  looked  definitely  and 
increasingly  astonished,  as  Valentine  continued: 

"  There  is  to  be  such  a  battle.  I  have  seen  it  for  a 
long  time.  Julian,  you  may  think  you  know  women. 
You  do  n't.  I  said  just  now  that  a  woman  like  Cuckoo 
Bright  is  nothing,  but  I  said  it  for  the  sake  of  utter- 
ing a  paradox.  No  woman  is  ever  nothing  in  a  world 
that  is  full  of  the  things  called  men.  No  woman  's  ever 
nothing  so  long  as  there  is  a  bottle  of  hair-dye,  a  rouge- 
pot,  a  dressmaker,  and — a  man  within  reach.  She  may 
be  in  the  very  gutter.     That  does  n't  matter.     For  from 


378  FLAMES 

the  very  gutter  she  can  see — not  the  stars,  but  the 
twinkling  vanities  of  men,  and  they  will  light  her  on  her 
way  to  Mayfair  drawing-rooms,  even,  perhaps,  to  Court. 
AVho  knows?  And  God — or  the  devil — has  given  to  every 
woman  the  knowledge  of  her  possibilities.  Men  have 
only  the  ignorance  of  theirs." 

"What  has  this  to  do  with  Cuckoo  and  me?"  Julian 
said.      "  This  bottle  is  empty,  Valentine." 

Valentine  rang  hastily  for  another. 

"And  what  on  earth  has  it  got  to  do  with  a  battle 
between  you  and  Cuckoo?  " 

"  Everything.  She  hates  me.  She  has  told  you  so 
again  and  again." 

Julian  looked  expressively  uncomfortable. 

"  I  've  always  stood  up  for  you,"  he  began. 

"  I  believe  it.  She  hates  me  not  because  I  am  my- 
self, but  simply  because  I  am  your  closest  friend.  Hush, 
Julian.  It  's  much  better  all  this  should  be  said  once 
for  all.  Many  women  are  intensely  jealous  of  the  men 
friends  of  men  whom  they  either  love,  or  who  they  mean 
shall  love  them.  Look  at  the  wives  who  drive  their  hus- 
bands' old  chums  from  intimacy  into  the  outer  darkness 
of  acquaintanceship.  Wedding-days  break,  as  well  as 
bind,  faith.  And  you  have  had  your  wedding-day  with 
Cuckoo." 

"  That  was  an  accident.     She  loathes  to  think  of  it." 

"She  may  say  so.  But  it  puts  a  fine  edge  on  her 
hatred  of  me,  nevertheless." 

"  No,  Valentine,  no.  Her  dislike  of  you  is  simply 
silly — instinctive. " 

"She  tells  you  so.  Ah!  I  was  wrong  to  call  her 
nothing.  But  it  is  her  hatred  of  me  that  must  bring  us  to 
battle  unless — " 

"Unless  what?" 

"  You  give  her  up  now,  once  and  for  all." 

"  Give  Cuckoo  up!  " 

The  words  came  slowly,  and  the  voice  that  uttered 
them  sounded  startled  and  even  shocked.  Valentine 
began  to  gauge  the  new  power  of  the  lady  of  the  feathers 
from  that  moment. 

"  That  's  a — a  strong  thing  to  do,  Val." 


BATTLE   ARRAY  379 

*'  It  won't  hurt  you  to  do  a  strong  thing  for  once  in 
your  life." 

"  Even  if  it  did  n't  hurt  me  I  think  it  would  hurt  her 
very  much.  For,  Valentine,  I  believe  you  said  the  truth 
when  you  said  to  me  once,  'That  girl  loves  you.'  Do 
you  remember?  " 

*'  Perfectly.  Loves  you,  your  birth,  your  position, 
your  money,  your  good  looks,  perhaps  your  standpoint 
above  the  gutter.  I  can  well  believe  that  Miss  Bright, 
like  all  her  sisterhood,  loves  with  undying  love  that 
combination  of  flesh-pots,  her  notion  of  the  ego  of  a 
man." 

**  She  has  never  accepted  a  halfpenny  from  me." 

**  Because  she  means  eventually  to  have  twenty-one 
shillings  in  the  pound.      Have  some  more  champagne." 

"Yes.  You  are  wrong,  Val,  utterly  wrong.  Cuckoo's 
not  mercenary.  If  such  a  girl  could  be  good,  she  is 
good." 

There  was  just  a  touch  of  the  maudlin  in  Julian's 
voice.  He  went  on  very  earnestly,  and  nodding  his  head 
emphatically  over  even  his  conjunctions. 

"And  if  she  were  what  you  say,  she  would  have  no 
influence  over  me,  and  I  should  hate  her.  But  to  me 
she  is  just  what  a  good  girl  might  be.  Why,  even  the 
doctor — " 

"Was  he  there  to-night?"  Valentine  cried,  with  a 
sudden  inspiration. 

"  Of  course  he  was.  And  you  know  what  a  particular 
little  chap  he  is." 

"Why  was  he  there?  " 

"  Just  to  see  Cuckoo,  you  know,  in  a  friendly  way." 

Valentine  realized  then  that  the  battle  had  begun. 
He  divined  the  meaning  of  the  doctor's  visit.  He 
guessed  what  it  had  done  for  the  lady  of  the  feathers. 
And  he  sat  silent  while  Julian  went  on  drinking  more 
champagne. 

"  I  believe  he  likes  Cuckoo,  Val.  I  am  sure  he  does. 
And  he  behaved  quite  as  if  —  quite  as  if  he  —  you  know 
—  respected  her.  And  it 's  all  nonsense  her  hating  you, 
and  having  a  battle,  and  all  that  kind  of  thing,  with  you. 
She  's  only  fanciful.     She  's  not —  " 


380  FLAMES 

"Would  you  give  her  up  if  I  asked  you  to  ?  Mind, 
Julian,  I  do  n't  say  I  ever  shall  ask  you.  But  if  I 
do?" 

"Don't  ask  me  to,  don't  ask  me.  Poor  Cuckoo, 
poor  girl,  she  's  got  no  friends,  money,  or  —  or  anything. 
Poor  Cuckoo.      Poor  Cuck  —  Cuck — " 

He  fell  back  in  his  chair,  nodding  his  head,  and  re- 
iterating his  commiseration  for  the  lady  of  the  feathers 
in  a  faint  and  recurring  hiccough.  Valentine  got  up 
and  rang  the  bell. 

"The  bill,  please,  waiter." 

"Yes,  sir." 

The  man  glanced  at  Julian  with  the  shadow  of  a 
pleasing,  and  apparently  also  pleased,  smile  and  with- 
drew. Valentine  stood  for  a  moment  looking  at  the 
leaning  figure  on  the  chair,  relaxed  in  the  first  throes  of 
a  drunken  slumber.  His  anger  and  almost  unbridled 
emotion  completely  died  away  as  he  looked. 

"  Can  it  be  called  a  battle  after  all?  "  he  said  to  him- 
self. "  They  may  not  know  it,  but  it  is  practically  won 
already." 

The  waiter  re-entered.  Valentine  paid  the  bill,  and 
the  breath  of  the  frost  shortly  revived  Julian  into  an 
attempt  at  conversation. 

"  Do  n't  ask  me  to  give  her  up,  Val ;  do  n't,  do  n't  ask 
me.      Poor  girl.     Poor,  poor  Cuck — Cuck." 

The  name  of  the  lady  of  the  feathers  seemed  a  good 
one  for  a  tipsy  tongue  to  play  with. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  DOCTOR   RECEIVES  A  VISIT  FROM   MRS. 
WILSON 

Doctor  Levillier  grew  more  puzzled  day  by  day.  His 
observation  of  Valentine  taught  him  only  one  thing  cer- 
tainly, and  beyond  possibility  of  doubt  and  that  was  the 
death  of  the  youth  he  had  once  loved,  the  living  presence 
of  a  youth  whom  he  could  not  love,  whom  he  could  only 
shrink  from  and  even  fear.  He  held  to  the  theory  that 
this  radical  and  ghastly  change  must  be  caused  by  some 
obscure  dementia,  some  secret  overturning  of  the  mind; 
but  he  was  obliged  to  confess  to  himself  that  he  held  to 
it  only  because,  otherwise,  he  would  be  floating  helpless, 
and  without  a  spar,  upon  a  tide  of  perplexity  and  con- 
fusion. He  could  not  honestly  say  that  he  was  able  to 
put  his  finger  upon  any  definite  signs  of  madness  ex- 
hibited by  Valentine,  any  that  would  satisfy  a  mad-doc- 
tor. He  could  only  say  that  Valentine's  character  had 
been  strangely  beautiful  and  was  now  strangely  evil,  and 
that  the  soul  of  Julian  was  following  rapidly  the  soul  of 
Valentine.  The  more  closely  he  watched  Valentine,  the 
more  astounded  did  he  become  and  the  more  eager  to 
detach  Julian  from  him.  But  the  strangest  thing  of  all, 
as  the  doctor  allowed  in  one  of  his  frequent  self-com- 
munings,  was,  that  though  formerly  he  had  loved  Valen- 
tine better  than  Julian,  it  never  occurred  to  him  that  the 
work  of  rescue  might  be  undertaken  on  behalf  of  the 
former.  His  mind  dismissed  the  new  Valentine  into  a 
region  that  was  beyond  his  scope  and  power.  He  felt 
instinctively  that  here  was  a  soul,  a  will,  that  his  soul 
could  not  turn  from  its  ends  or  detach  from  its  pursuits. 
The  new  Valentine  was  a  law  to  himself.  What  moved 
the  doctor  to  such  horror  was  that  the  new  Valentine 
was  a  law  to  Julian.   And  there  was  something  peculiarly 

381 


382  FLAMES 

dreadful  in  the  idea  which  he  held,  that  Julian,  once 
under  the  beautiful  influence  of  Valentine's  sanity,  was 
now  under  the  baneful  influence  of  his  insanity.  The 
doctor  had  gone  the  length  of  deciding,  in  his  own  mind, 
that  Valentine's  sane  period  of  life  and  insane  period 
lay  one  on  each  side  of  a  fixed  gulf,  and  that  fixed  gulf 
was  his  long  trance  succeeding  the  final  sitting  of  the  two 
young  men.  This  conclusion  was  arrived  at  with  ease, 
once  the  theory  of  a  subtle  lunacy  was  accepted  as  a 
fact.  For,  on  sending  his  mind  back  along  the  ways  of 
recollection,  the  doctor  was  able  to  recall  hints  of  the 
new  Valentine  dating  from  that  very  night,  but  never 
before  it.  The  first  hint  was  Rip's  manifested  fear,  and 
this  led  on  to  others  which  have  been  already  mentioned. 
Having  made  up  his  mind  that  this  trance  was  the 
motive  power  of  Valentine's  supposed  madness,  the 
doctor  sought  in  every  direction  to  increase  his  knowl- 
edge on  the  subject  of  simulations  of  death  by  the 
human  body.  He  looked  up  again  the  cases  of  innume- 
rable hysterical  patients  whom  he  had  himself  treated, 
sometimes  with  success,  sometimes  with  failure.  He 
consulted  other  doctors,  of  course  without  mentioning 
the  object  of  his  research.  He  endeavoured  to  apply  to 
Valentine's  case  standards  by  which  he  was  quickly  able 
to  form  a  satisfactory  opinion  on  the  cases  of  others. 
He  even  went  so  far  as  to  examine  as  closely  as  possible 
into  the  history  of  table-turning,  the  uses  ascribed  to  it 
by  its  votaries,  and  the  results  obtained  from  it  by  credi- 
ble—  as  opposed  to  merely  credulous — witnesses.  But 
he  found  no  case  that  seemed  in  any  way  analogous  to 
the  strange  case  of  Valentine.  As  was  only  natural,  the 
doctor  did  not  forget  the  possibility  of  hypnotism,  which 
had  struck  him  during  his  second  conversation  with  the 
lady  of  the  feathers.  Her  confused  declarations  on  the 
subject  of  Valentine  and  Marr  being  one  person,  if  they 
were  really  a  true  account  of  what  Valentine  had  said  to 
her  —  which  seemed  very  doubtful  —  could  only  be  made 
clear  by  accepting  as  a  fact  that  the  dead  Marr  had  laid 
a  hypnotic  spell  upon  Valentine,  which  continued  to  exist 
actively  long  after  its  weaver  slept  in  the  grave.  But 
Marr  and  Valentine  had  never  met.     This  fact   seemed 


THE   DOCTOR   RECEIVES   A  VISIT    383 

fully  established.  Valentine  had  always  denied  any 
knowledge  of  him  before  the  trance.  Julian  had  always 
assumed  that  only  he  of  the  two  friends  had  any  ac- 
quaintance with  Marr.  And  again,  when  the  doctor,  one 
day,  quite  casually,  said  to  Valentine,  "  By  the  way,  you 
never  did  meet  Marr,  did  you?"  Valentine  replied, 
"  Never,  till  I  saw  him  lying  dead  in  the  Euston  Road." 

The  doctor  could  see  no  ray  of  light  in  the  darkness 
that  could  guide  him  to  the  clue  of  the  mystery.  He 
could  only  say  to  himself,  "It  must  be,  it  must  be  an 
obscure  and  horrible  madness,"  and  keep  his  theory  to 
himself.  Sometimes,  as  he  sat  pondering  over  the  whole 
affair,  he  smiled,  half  sadly,  half  sarcastically.  For  the 
event  brought  home  to  his  ready  modesty  the  sublime 
ignorance  of  all  clever  and  instructed  men,  taught  him 
to  wonder,  as  he  had  often  wondered,  that  there  exists 
in  such  a  world  as  ours  such  a  fantastic  growth  as  the 
flourishing  weed,  conceit. 

Another  matter  that  puzzled  him  greatly  was  this: 
As  the  days  went  on,  and  as  Valentine  grew  —  and  he 
did  grow  —  more  certain  of  his  own  power  for  evil  over 
Julian,  and  as,  consequently,  he  took  less  and  less  pains 
to  hide  the  truth  of  his  personality  from  the  knowledge 
of  the  doctor,  the  latter  was  frequently  seized  with  the 
appalled  sensation  which  had  long  ago  overtaken  him 
when  he  was  followed  in  Regent  Street  and  in  Vera 
Street.  This  recurrence  of  sensation,  and  the  certainty 
forced  gradually  upon  the  doctor  that  it  was  caused  by 
the  presence  of  Valentine,  naturally  led  him  to  wonder 
whether  it  were  possible  that  the  man  who  had  dogged 
his  steps,  and  eventually  fled  from  him,  could  have  been 
Valentine  himself.  If  that  were  indeed  so,  then  this 
madness  —  if  it  did  exist  —  must  surely  have  come  upon 
Valentine  before  the  trance.  Nothing  but  a  madness 
could  have  led  him  thus  in  the  night  hours  to  steal  out 
in  pursuit  of  the  friend  who  had  just  left  his  house  and 
company.  But  the  doctor  knew  of  no  means  by  which 
he  could  satisfy  himself  of  Valentine's  movements 
on  the  night  in  question.  To  ask  Valentine  himself 
would  be  to  court  a  lie.  Once  the  doctor  thought  for 
a  moment  of  having  recourse  to  Wade.     But  then  he 


384  FLAMES 

remembered  that  the  butler  did  not  sleep  in  the  flat,  and 
had  no  doubt  long  gone  home  before  the  event  of  the 
night  in  question.  So,  again,  he  was  confronted  with  a 
dead-wall,  beyond  which  he  could  see  no  clear  view  or 
comprehensible  country. 

About  this  time  there  happened  an  event  which  struck 
strongly  upon  the  doctor's  mind.  He  was  one  day,  as 
usual,  in  his  consulting-room,  receiving  a  multitude  of 
patients,  when  his  man-servant  entered  with  a  card  on 
a  salver. 

"A  lady,  sir,  who  wishes  to  see  you.  She  has  no 
appointment." 

The  doctor  took  the  card.  On  it  was  printed  merely 
*'  Mrs.  Wilson." 

**I  cannot  see  the  lady  to-day,"  he  said,  "unless  she 
can  call  again  after  five  o'clock.  But  I  can  see  her 
then,  or  to-morrow  morning  at  ten.  Ask  her  which  she 
would  prefer." 

After  a  moment's  absence  Lawler  returned. 

"The  lady  will  come  at  five  o'clock  this  evening,  sir." 

*'  Very  well." 

And  the  doctor  bent  his  mind  once  more  steadily  upon 
his  work. 

At  five  o'clock  the  door  opened,  and  a  tall,  square, 
and  strong-looking  woman,  dressed  in  black,  walked 
quietly  into  the  room.  She  bowed  to  the  doctor  and  sat 
down. 

"  I  am  glad  you  could  see  me  to-day,"  she  said.  "  I 
leave  London  early  to-morrow  morning.  I  hate  Lon- 
don." 

She  spoke  in  a  full  and  rather  rich  voice,  with  a 
slightly  burring  accent,  and  looked  the  doctor  full  in 
the  face  with  a  pair  of  large  and  sensible  grey  eyes. 
Nature  had  certainly  built  her  to  be  one  of  those  towers 
of  women,  strong  for  themselves,  for  their  sex,  and  often 
for  men  also,  who  possess  a  peculiar  power,  given  in  quite 
full  measure  to  no  male  creature,  of  large  sympathy  and 
lofty  composure.  But  the  doctor  saw  at  a  glance  that 
some  adverse  fate  had  disagreed  with  the  intentions  of 
nature,  and  fought  against  them  with  success.  Circum- 
stances must  have  arisen  in  this  woman's  life  to  break 


THE    DOCTOR   RECEIVES   A   VISIT    3S5 

down  her  unusual  equipment  of  courage  and  resolution, 
or  if  not  to  break  it  down,  to  dint  and  batter  the  shield 
she  carried  over  her  heart  and  life.  For  her  fine  face 
was  lined  with  care,  her  naturally  firm  mouth  was  tor- 
mented by  an  apparently  irresistible  quivering,  that, 
once  prompted  by  long  and  painful  emotion,  had  now 
become  habitual  and  mechanical,  and  her  eyes,  although 
they  met  the  eyes  of  the  doctor  with  a  peculiar 
large  reception  and  return  pf  scrutiny,  held  in  their 
depths  that  hunted  expression  which  is  only  developed 
by  long  agony,  either  physical  or  mental.  So  much  the 
doctor  read  in  a  glance  before  his  patient  began  to  detail 
her  symptoms.  She  detailed  them  with  a  certain  obvious 
shame  and  a  slow  conquering  of  reticence  that  made  her 
speak  very  deliberately. 

She  began  by  saying,  in  no  insulting  manner,  that  she 
had  kept  clear  of  doctors  during  almost  the  whole  of  her 
life;  that  she  had  meant  to  keep  clear  of  them  till  her 
death. 

"For  I  was  born  with  a  constitution  of  iron,"  she 
said,  "and  I  have  always  lived  on  the  most  sanitary 
principles,  and  with  the  utmost  simplicity.  So  I  hoped 
to  go  to  my  grave  without  much  suffering.  Certainly  I 
never  expected  to  have  to  consult  any  one  on  the  ground 
of  nervous  breakdown.  Yet  that  is  exactly  why  I  am 
here  with  you  at  this  moment.  The  circumstances  of  my 
life  have  been  too  much  for  me,  I  suppose." 

There  was  a  grave  pathos  in  her  voice  as  she  uttered 
the  last  words. 

"At  any  rate,"  she  continued,  after  a  pause,  "I 
would  like  you  to  help  me  if  you  can.  The  cause  of  my 
breakdown  is  remote  enough,  several  years  old.  I  had  a 
tremendous  burden  to  bear  then,  and  I  bore  it,  as  I 
thought  bravely,  for  a  long  time.  At  last  it  grew  intol- 
erable, and  then  I  succeeded  at  last  in  getting  it  re- 
moved, in  getting  rid  of  it,  you  understand,  altogether. 
The  odd  thing  is,  that  while  I  was  bearing  my  burden  my 
strength  did  not  fail  me,  my  courage  did  not  utterly  give 
way.  Only  when  the  burden  was  removed  did  I  faint 
because  of  it.  My  trouble  was  partially  physical — I  had 
to  endure  grave  physical  cruelty  at  that  time — but  chiefly 


386  FLAMES 

mental.  My  agony  of  mind  ran  a  race  with  my  agony  of 
body,  and  won  easily.  It 's  generally  so  with  women,  I 
believe?  " 

She  waited  as  if  for  a  reply. 

"Yes,  it  is  often  so,"  Doctor Levillier  answered. 

"  Ever  since  the  burden  was  lifted  from  my  shoul- 
ders," she  continued,  "I  have  been  getting  steadily 
worse.  Each  month,  each  year,  I  became  more  and 
more  degraded  in  my  cowardice,  my  fear  of  trifles,  even 
of  things  which  have  no  existence  at  all.  All  this  is  per- 
haps—  perhaps  —  peculiarly  painful  to  me  because  I  am 
naturally,  you  must  understand,  what  sane  people  call  a 
strong-minded  woman.  I  had  originally  complete  physi- 
cal courage,  did  n't  know  the  meaning  of  the  word  'fear,' 
despised  those  who  did,  I  am  afraid.  So  you  see  this  is 
very  bad  for  me;  it  cuts  so  deep  into  my  mind,  you  see. 
It  makes  me  hate  and  loathe  myself  so.  I  sleep  badly, 
and  have  the  usual  symptoms  of  nervous  collapse,  I  be- 
lieve. I  'm  strong  one  moment,  feeble,  no  good  at  all, 
the  next.  My  appetite  has  long  been  bad,  and  so  on. 
But  it  is  n't  that  sort  of  thing  I  mind.  I  could  fight 
with  that  well  enough.  It 's  my  horrible  deterioration 
of  mind  that  troubles  me,  that  has  brought  me  here,  to 
you,  in  spite  of  my  hatred  of  London,  of  every  city.  It 
was  in  a  city,  though  not  in  London,  that  I  bore  that 
burden  I  told  you  of.  It  does  n't  seem  possible  to  me, 
but  I  'm  told,  and  I  read,  that  my  mind  diseased  may  be 
an  effect,  and  that  the  cause  may  lie  in  my  body.  That  's 
why  I  come  to  you.  Doctor  Levillier,  root  out  the  dis- 
ease if  you  can." 

She  ended  speaking  almost  with  passion,  her  lips 
trembling  all  the  time  and  her  eyes  never  leaving  his 
face.  Then  she  added  with  a  curious  characteristic  ab- 
ruptness: 

'*  I  will  tell  you  that  I  've  plenty  of  money.  Lack  of 
funds  is  no  weapon  against  my  return  to  health  —  if  my 
return  is  in  any  way  possible." 

Doctor  Levillier  smiled  slightly. 

"You  are  anticipating  the  usual  *  long-sea  voyage' 
formula,  I  see,"  he  said. 

"  Possibly." 


THE    DOCTOR   RECEIVES   A  VISIT    387 

"  I  should  not  prescribe  it  for  you  off-hand,"  he  said. 
"Sea  air  is  not  a  specific  for  all  nervous  complaints,  as 
some  people  seem  to  think.     You  have  no  bodily  pain?  " 

"  No.     I  often  wish  I  had." 

"  What  you  tell  me  about  your  gradual  collapse  com- 
ing on  after  the  crisis  of  your  troubles  was  over,  and  not 
during  it,  does  not  surprise  me.  Nor  am  I  puzzled  by 
your  malady  increasing  if,  as  I  suppose,  you  are  living 
idly." 

*'  I  am.  I  have  no  courage  to  do  anything  or  see  any- 
body." 

"  Exactly.     You  live  in  a  sort  of  hiding." 

"Why  —  yes.  You  see,  once  I  was  well  known  to  a 
good  many  people.  My  troubles  became  known  to  them 
too.  I  could  not  get  rid  of  that  burden  I  told  you  of 
except  by  blazoning  them  abroad.  I  shrink  from  meet- 
ing any  people  now.   Therefore  I  live  very  quietly.    I — " 

Suddenly  she  seemed  to  grow  tired  of  the  half  meas- 
ures in  frankness  that  had  so  far  governed  her  communi- 
cations. She  spread  forth  her  hands  with  a  very  char- 
acteristic, ample  gesture  of  sudden  confidence. 

"I  think  I  '11  tell  you  exactly  what  it  was,"  she  said, 
"You  may  have  read  of  me.  Long  ago,  some  years  at 
least,  I  was  obliged  to  take  action  against  my  husband, 
a  Mr.  Wilson,  who  afterwards  assumed  the  name  of 
Marr.  I  charged  him  with  cruelty,  won  my  case,  and  ob- 
tained a  judicial  separation." 

Then  Dr.  Levillier  knew  that  he  looked  on  the  former 
wife  of  the  strange,  cruel,  dead  man,  whose  influence  had 
entered  into  the  lives  of  his  two  friends. 

"You  may  have  heard  of  my  case?  "  Mrs.  Wilson  said. 

"Certainly  I  have." 

"  It  was  bad,  even  from  a  newspaper  point  of  view,  I 
believe.  People  congratulated  me  on  getting  rid  of  a 
brute,  and  thought  I  was  all  right  and  ought  to  be 
happy.  But  the  newspapers  and  the  world  never  knew 
what  I  had  gone  through,  the  real  horrors,  before  I  in- 
sisted on  release.  You  started  when  I  called  my  hus- 
band a  brute  just  now,  Dr.  Levillier;  I  noticed  it. 
The  phrase  hurt  you,  coming  from  any  wife  about  any 
husband.     I  know  why.     A  boy  once  told  me  that  his 


388  FLAMES 

mother  was  always  drunk.  He  hurt  me  then  into  hating 
him  for  the  rest  of  my  days.  But  I  called  a  stranger  a 
brute,  not  the  man  I  loved  and  married,  not  the  man  I 
loved  after  I  married  him.  Dr.  Levillier,  do  you  be- 
lieve in  possessions?  " 

She  had  been  gradually  getting  excited  while  she 
spoke,  and,  on  the  last  words,  she  leaned  forward  in  her 
chair  and  struck  her  hand  down  in  her  lap. 

"Do  you  mean  possession  by  the  devil?"  said  the 
doctor,  very  quietly,  opposing  a  strong  calm  to  her 
intensity. 

"Yes.  I  do.  My  experience  obliges  me  to.  I  knew, 
for  a  year  before  I  married  him,  I  married,  I  lived  for 
two  years  after  I  married  him,  with  a  man  who  was  my 
conception  of  what  a  man  should  be,  strong,  gentle, 
tender,  brave,  a  hero  to  me.  I  got  rid  of  a  devil,  after 
I  had  endured  two  years  of  torture  at  his  hands.  It  is 
no  use  to  tell  me  those  two  distinct  men  I  knew  were 
one  and  the  same  man.  My  soul,  my  heart,  declare 
that  it 's  a  lie.  There  were  such  differences.  My  hus- 
band loved  music;  this  man  hated  it;  yet  had  the  power 
to  use  it  as  a  means  of  tormenting  me.  But  I  need  n't 
dwell  on  the  evidences  of  change.  Suffice  it  to  say  that 
the  thing  that  crushed  me,  the  thing  that  has  brought  me 
down  into  the  dust  where  I  am,  dust  of  cowardice,  and 
weakness,  and  impotence  to  do  or  to  be  anything,  was 
the  horror  of  awakening  to  a  knowledge  of  that  change, 
of  having  to  live  as  wife  with  this  devil,  whom  I  knew 
not,  who  was  a  stranger  to  me.  Only  the  features  were 
my  husband's,  nothing  else.  I  got  rid  of  a  stranger. 
The  man  found  dead  in  the  Euston  Road  was  a  stranger 
whom  I  hated,  nothing  more  to  me  than  that." 

As  she  spoke,  in  a  deep,  resonant  voice  that  pulsated 
through  the  room.  Dr.  Levillier  recalled,  almost  with 
a  thrill,  Julian's  words  to  him  in  Harley  Street,  on  the 
night  of  the  fracas  with  the  mastiffs,  words  spoken  about 
the  dead  Marr:  "  His  face  dead  was  the  most  abso- 
lutely direct  contradiction  possible  to  his  face  alive. 
He  was  not  the  same  man."  He  recalled  these  wordf 
and  the  thought  shot  through  his  mind:  "  Did  the  man 
this  woman  loved  return  at  the  moment  of  death?  " 


THE    DOCTOR   RECEIVES   A  VISIT    3S9 

And  that  change  in  Valentine! 

He  said  to  Mrs.  Wilson,  betraying  none  of  the  excite- 
ment that  he  really  felt: 

"You  spoke  of  cruelty.  You  had  to  endure  physical 
cruelty?" 

"Worse,  to  see  it  endured  by  others,  dumb,  helpless 
creatures,  by  my  own  dog." 

A  great  shudder  ran  through  her. 

"  I  can't  talk  of  it, ' '  she  said.  "  But  it  made  me  what 
I  am.  Can  you  do  anything  for  me?  Why  do  you  look 
at  me  like  that?  " 

For,  at  her  word  about  the  dog,  the  doctor  had  fallen 
into  a  tense  reverie,  looking  steadily  upon  her,  yet  as  one 
who  sees  little  or  nothing.      He  roused  himself  quickly. 

"  Tell  me  something  of  the  symptoms  of  your  mental 
malady,"  he  said.  "These  fancies  that  distress  you,  of 
what  nature  are  they?  " 

She  told  him.  Many  of  them  were  symptoms  well 
known  to  all  those  who  have  suffered  acutely  after  some 
great  shock,  imagined  sounds,  movements,  and  so  forth. 
The  doctor  listened.  He  had  heard  such  a  story  many 
times  before. 

"I,  /  am  full  of  these  ghastly,  these  degrading 
fancies,"  Mrs.  Wilson  cried,  with  a  sort  of  large  indigna- 
tion against  herself,  and  yet  an  uncertain  terror.  "  Is  it 
not—?" 

She  suddenly  stopped  speaking. 

"There  's  some  one  at  your  door,"  she  said,  after  a 
second  or  two  of  apparent  attention  to  some  sound 
without. 

"  I  dare  say.     A  patient." 

At  this  moment  a  voice,  which  Dr.  Levillier  imme- 
diately recognized  as  the  voice  of  Valentine,  was  audible 
in  the  hall. 

Mrs.  Wilson  turned  suddenly  very  pale,  and  began  to 
tremble  and  gnaw  her  nether  lip  with  her  teeth  in  an  ac- 
cess of  nervous  disturbance. 

"In  God's  name  tell  me  who  that  is, "  she  whispered, 
turning  her  head  in  the  direction  of  the  door.  "It can't 
be — it  can't  be — "  Valentine's  voice  rose  a  little 
louder.     "  It  ;V  his  voice. " 


390  FLAMES 

"Fancy!  "  the  doctor  said  firmly.  "It  is  the  voice 
of  a  friend  of  mine,  Mr.  Valentine  Cresswell." 

Mrs.  Wilson  said  nothing.  She  was  trying  to  force 
herself  to  believe  the  evidence  of  another's  sense  against 
her  own.  Such  a  task  is  always  difficult.  At  last  she 
looked  up  and  said: 

"  There,  doctor,  there  you  have  an  exhibition  of  my 
illness.     It 's  horrible  to  me.     Can  you  cure  it?  " 

"  I  will  try,"  the  doctor  answered. 

But  he  found  it  very  difficult  just  at  that  moment  to 
say  the  three  words  quietly,  to  let  Valentine  go  after 
leaving  his  message,  without  confronting  him  with  this 
haggard  patient  who  was  entering  the  pool  of  Bethesda. 


CHAPTER  IX 

A  SHADOW  ON  FIRE 

When  a  naturally  calm,  clear,  and  courageous  mind 
finds  itself  besieged  by  what  seem  hysterical  fancies,  it  is 
troubled  and  perplexed,  and  is  inclined  to  take  drastic 
measures  to  restore  itself  to  its  normal  condition.  Dr. 
Levillier  found  himself  the  prey  of  such  fancies  after  his 
interview  with  Mrs.  Wilson.  He  had  prescribed  for  her. 
He  had  very  carefully  considered  what  way  of  life  would 
be  likely  to  restore  her  to  health,  and  to  banish  the 
demons  which  had  brought  her  strength  and  unusual 
self-reliance  so  low.  He  had  received  her  gratitude,  and 
had  dismissed  her  to  the  following  of  his  plans  for  her 
benefit.  All  this  he  had  done  with  calm  deliberation, 
the  very  cheerful  composure  which  he  always  practiced 
towards  the  victims  of  nervous  complaints.  But  even 
while  he  did  this  his  own  mind  was  in  a  turmoil.  For 
this  woman  had  let  fall  statements  with  regard  to  her 
dead  husband  which  most  curiously  bolstered  up 
Cuckoo's  fantastic  assertion  that  Valentine  and  Marr 
were  the  same  man.  Marr  had  been  cruel  to  animals,  to 
dogs,  had  evidently  taken  a  keen  enjoyment  in  torturing 
them,  and  on  hearing  Valentine's  voice  she  had  turned 
pale  and  declared  that  it  was  the  voice  of  her  husband. 
Then  her  strange  declaration  about  her  husband's  use  of 
music  as  a  mode  of  cruelty!  These  circumstances 
appealed  powerfully  to  the  doctor's  mind,  or  at  least  to 
that  unscientific  side  of  it  which  inclined  him  to  romance, 
and  to  a  certain  sympathy  with  the  mysteries  of  the 
world.  Many  Europeans  who  go  to  India  return  to  their 
own  continent  imbued  with  a  belief  in  miracles,  modem 
miracles,  which  no  argument,  no  sarcasm,  can  shake. 
But  there  are  miracles  in  Europe  too.  The  magicians 
of  the  East  work  wonders  in  the  strange  atmosphere  of 

391 


392  FLAMES 

that  strange  country,  whose  very  air  is  heavy  with  magic. 
Yet  England,  too,  has  her  magicians.  London  holds  in 
the  arms  of  its  yellow  fogs  and  dust-laden  clouds 
miracles.  Doctor  Levillier  found  himself  assailed  by 
ideas  like  these  as  he  thought  of  that  transformed  Marr, 
"possessed,"  as  the  pale,  strongly  built  wreck  of  a 
grand,  powerful  woman  had  named  it,  as  he  thought  of 
the  transformed  Valentine,  the  hour  of  whose  trans- 
formation coincided  with  the  hour  of  Marr's  death. 
Why  had  this  new,  horrible,  yet  beautiful  creature  risen 
out  of  the  ashes  of  the  trance  that  was  practically  a 
death?  why  had  he  such  amazing  points  of  resemblance 
to  Marr?  Why  had  the  influence  of  Marr  been  delibe- 
rately intruded  into  the  calm,  happy,  and  safe  lives  of 
Julian  and  Valentine?  Marr  was  cruel  to  dogs,  and 
dogs  showed  rage  and  terror  when  the  new  Valentine 
approached  them.  Marr  had  a  hatred,  yet  a  knowledge 
of  music.  The  new  Valentine,  when  forced  to  sing, 
sang  like  some  wild,  desolate  thing,  with  reluctant  and 
terrible  voice.  And  at  this  point  the  doctor  used  the 
curb  suddenly  and  pulled  himself  up  sharply.  He  felt 
that  is  was  useless,  that  it  was  unworthy,  to  plunge  him- 
self thus  in  romance,  and  to  hang  veils  of  mystery  around 
these  facts  which  he  had  to  accept  and  to  deal  with.  A 
touch  of  humanity  is  worth  all  the  unhuman  romance  in 
the  world.  Humanity  lay  at  the  doctor's  gate,  sore  dis- 
tressed, sinking  to  something  that  was  beyond  distress. 
So,  putting  his  fancies  resolutely  behind  him,  Doctor 
Levillier  resolved  to  fight  through  that  frail  weapon, 
the  lady  of  the  feathers,  the  battle  of  Julian's  will 
against  the  will — which  he  now  fully  and  once  for 
all  recognized  as  malign — of  the  man  he  must  still 
call  Valentine.  Valentine  had  said  to  Julian,  at  the 
Savoy,  "If  it  came  to  a  battle  —  Cuckoo  Bright's 
will  against  mine!  "  The  doctor  had  not  heard  those 
words.  Yet,  under  the  stars  on  the  doorstep  of  Cuckoo's 
dwelling  he,  too,  had  spoken  to  the  girl  of  a  fight. 
Thus  he  had  poured  a  great  ardour  into  her  heart. 
The  three  souls.  Cuckoo's,  Doctor  Levillier's,  Valen- 
tine's, were  thus  set  in  battle  array.  They  under- 
stood what  they  faced,  or  at  least  that  they  faced  war- 


A   SHADOW   ON   FIRE  393 

fare.  Only  Julian  did  not  understand — yet.  He  was 
besotted  by  the  spell  of  the  one  he  called  friend  laid 
upon  him,  and  by  the  vices  in  which  he  had  been  taught 
to  wallow.  His  brain  was  clouded  and  his  eyes  were 
dim,  as  the  brains  and  eyes  of  the  malades  imaginaires 
who  carry  on  the  scheme  of  sin  and  sorrow  in  the  world, 
and  prolong  by  their  deeds  the  long  travail  of  their  race. 
Julian  did  not  understand.  For  now  he  seldom  thought 
sincerely.  Sincere  thoughts  and  the  incessant  and  vio- 
lent acts  of  passion  do  not  often  dwell  together. 

The  progress  of  Julian  towards  degradation  had  now 
become  so  rapid  that  his  many  acquaintances  talked  of 
him  openly  as  of  one  who  had  practically  "gone  under. " 
Not  that  he  had  ever  done  any  of  those  few  things  at 
which  society,  whose  door  is  generally  ajar,  with  Mrs. 
Grundy's  large  ear  glued  to  the  keyhole,  resolutely  shuts 
the  door.  He  had  not  forged,  or  stolen  a  watch,  or 
killed  anybody,  or  married  a  grocer's  widow,  or  anything 
of  that  kind.  But  he  had  thrown  his  life  to  the  pleasures 
of  the  body,  and  made  no  secret  of  the  fact.  And  the 
pleasures  of  the  body,  like  eager  rats,  had  gnawed  away 
his  power  of  self-control  until  he  could  resist  nothing, 
no  wish  of  the  moment,  no  desire  born  illegitimately  of 
passing  excitement  or  the  prompting  of  wine.  So  he 
committed  many  follies,  and  his  follies  had  loud  voices. 
They  shrieked  and  shouted.  And  society  heard  their 
cries,  held  the  door  a  little  more  ajar,  and  listened  with 
that  passion  of  attention  which  virtue  accords  to  vice. 
But  society,  having  heard  a  good  deal,  shook  its  head 
over  Julian.  He  had  acquired  such  a  taste  for  low  com- 
pany that  he  ought  to  have  been  born  a  peer.  Certainly, 
he  had  money.  That  made  his  errors  chink  rather  plea- 
santly, and  filled  the  bosoms  of  many  mothers  with  an 
expansive  charity  towards  him.  Still,  the  general  opinion 
was  that  he  was  sinking  very  low.  In  fact,  the  legend 
of  Julian's  shame  was  now  written  on  his  face  in  such 
legible  and  vital  characters  that  the  most  short-sighted 
eyes  could  not  fail  to  read  it.  The  eager  beauty  of  un- 
tarnished youth  had  faded  into  the  dull,  and  often  sulky, 
languors  of  the  utterly  indulged  body.  Julian  was  often 
exhausted    and    passing    through    those    leaden-footed 


394  FLAMES 

dreams  that  fitfully  entrance  the  vicious, — those  dreams 
that  are  colourless  and  sombre,  that  press  upon  all  the 
faculties,  and  yet  have  no  real  meaning,  that  stifle  all  in- 
tentions, and  put  an  end,  for  the  moment,  to  all  active 
desires.  People  talk  of  the  vicious  as  "living,"  but 
half  their  time  they  are  curiously  dead,  for  their  sins 
blunt  their  energies  and  lull  them  into  a  condition  that 
resembles  rather  paralysis  than  slumber. 

Since  the  night  on  which  he  had  supped  with  Valen- 
tine at  the  Savoy,  Julian  had  given  himself  up  to  the 
company  and  influence  of  his  friend  more  than  ever,  and 
London,  which  had  once  nicknamed  Valentine  the  Saint 
of  Victoria  Street,  began  to  dub  him  with  quite  another 
name.  For  it  gradually  became  apparent  to  those  who 
only  knew  the  two  young  men  slightly  that  Valentine  ex- 
erted an  extraordinarily  powerful  influence  over  Julian, 
and  that  the  influence  was  imperatively  evil.  At  first 
many  were  deceived  by  the  clear  beauty  of  Valentine's 
face,  but  that  was  beginning  to  fade.  A  thin  line,  pen- 
cilled here  and  there  with  a  fairylike  delicacy,  a  slight 
puffiness  beneath  the  blue  eyes,  a  looseness  of  the  cheeks, 
a  droop  of  the  lips,  all  very  demure,  as  it  were,  and 
furtive,  shed  alteration  upon  his  fair  beauty.  He  him- 
self noticed  it,  as  he  looked  in  a  mirror  one  night,  and 
silently  cursed  the  inevitable  effect  which  mind  produces 
upon  matter.  No  man's  face  can  forever  remain  an  en- 
tirely deceptive  mask.  The  saintly  expression  of  Valen- 
tine's was  rapidly  becoming  a  thing  of  the  past.  He 
wondered  whether  Julian  noticed  it.  But  Julian  was  too 
much  preoccupied  with  his  own  energies  of  dreary  action 
and  lacerating  fatigues  of  subsequent  thought,  or  it 
would  be  truer  to  say  moodiness,  to  notice  anything. 
He  was  self-centred,  as  are  all  sinners,  immersed  in  his 
own  downfall,  like  a  man  in  an  ocean.  He  was  uncon- 
scious that  he  was  the  subject  of  battle,  that  four  wills 
were  to  contend  for  his  soul's  sake.  Four  wills,  yet  one 
expressed  itself  in  no  outward  form.  It  was  in  exile, 
till  the  day  of  its  redemption  should  dawn. 

On  the  night  when  Valentine  heard  Julian  babble  in- 
coherently the  name  of  the  lady  of  the  feathers,  he  said 


A   SHADOW   ON    FIRE  395 

to  himself  that  the  battle  should  be  his,  and  he  leaned 
upon  his  will  to  feel  its  power  and  its  glory.  That  night 
he  forgot  its  fury,  the  intense  emotion  that  had  over- 
taken him  at  the  supper-table  as  he  gauged,  or  strove  to 
gauge,  the  influence  that  Cuckoo  was  obtaining  over 
Julian.  He  forgot  Doctor  Levillier.  He  remembered 
only  himself  and  his  own  strength,  which  he  was  now  to 
test  to  its  foundations.  And  when  he  woke  again  to 
thoughts  of  others,  it  was  only  to  laugh  at  the  force 
arrayed  against  him.  The  lady  of  the  feathers  moved, 
to  his  fancy,  like  the  most  piteous  of  puppets,  a  jeering 
fate  manipulating  the  strings.  This  manipulator  had 
kept  her  long  to  one  set  of  motions,  stiff  pleading  arm, 
anxious  head,  interrogative  joints,  and  a  strut  of  wolfish 
eagerness  and  hunger.  But  such  a  game  was  now  to  be 
abandoned.  And  behold  the  puppet  a  warrior  forsooth, 
a  very  Amazon,  hounded  to  fight  by  the  doctor's  voice, 
the  doctor's  word  of  encouragement,  battling  with  the 
stiff  arms  that  had  abandoned  the  pleading  gesture,  stern 
in  a  wooden  attitude  of  defiance.  And  Fate,  in  fits  of 
laughter  at  the  string-holding!  Then  Valentine  lost  his 
fear,  and  could  have  been  angry  that  such  a  scarecrow 
was  the  creature  selected  by  Fate  to  draw  a  sword  against 
him.  He  chose  to  forget  the  vision  in  the  mirror  when 
he  struck  at  the  staring  reflection  of  the  lady  of  the 
feathers  and  shivered  under  the  influence  of  a  cold  terror. 
He  chose  to  remember  only  the  thin  and  fearful  woman 
who  had  given  her  body  to  the  world,  and  so  had  surely 
given  her  soul  to  a  mill  that  had  long  ago  ground  it  to 
powder. 

There  is  nothing  so  terrible  to  one  screwed  up  to  the 
highest  pitch  of  action  as  a  monotony  of  waiting. 
Scourging  were  better,  the  hemp  or  the  fire.  The  lady 
of  the  feathers  had  been  stirred  to  a  strange  enthusiasm, 
and  to  a  belief  in  herself,  a  faith  more  wonderful  to  some, 
more  unaccustomed  and  remote  than  any  faith  in  God 
or  devil.  A  flood  of  energy  flowed  over  her,  warm  as 
blood,  strong  as  love,  keen  with  the  salt  of  beautiful 
novelty,  turbulent  as  the  seas  when  the  great  tides  take 
hold  on  them.  It  was  to  her  as  if  for  the  moment  the 
world's  centre  was  just  there  where  she  was  in  the  win- 


396  FLAMES 

ter,  and  in  the  Marylebone  Road,  within  sound  of  the 
great  church  clock,  the  great  church  bells,  the  cries  of 
the  street,  the  very  steam  panting  up  from  the  Baker 
Street  Station.  Cuckoo  was  in  the  core  of  things,  and 
the  core  of  things  is  fierce  and  hot  and  action-prompting. 
That  half-revealed  shadow  waving  good-bye  to  Julian,  as 
he  stepped  into  the  frosty  night,  was  a  shadow  on  fire. 
Yet  he  had  scarcely  looked  back  at  it.  But  Cuckoo  was  to 
learn  to  the  last  word  the  lesson  of  patience.  Inspired 
by  the  sympathy  of  the  doctor  and  by  something  deep 
in  her  own  heart,  she  was,  for  the  moment,  all  courage, 
all  flame.  She  was  ready  to  fight.  She  was  ready  to  do 
supreme  things,  to  touch  the  stars.  The  stars  went  out 
and  she  had  not  touched  them.  The  morning  dawned 
very  chilly,  very  dark,  the  morning  that  brought  Mrs. 
Brigg  to  her  room  yellow  and  complaining.  Still,  Cuckoo 
was  conscious  of  a  high,  beating  courage  that  made  sum- 
mer in  that  winter  day.  She  astonished  the  old  keeper 
of  that  weary  house  by  the  vivacity  of  her  manner,  the 
brightness  of  her  look.  For  Mrs.  Brigg  was  well  accus- 
tomed to  sad  morning  moods,  to  petulant  lassitude,  and 
dull  grimness  of  unpainted  and  unpowdered  fatigue,  but 
had  long  been  a  stranger  to  early  moods  of  hope  or  of 
gaiety.  Mornings  in  houses  such  as  hers  are  recurring 
tragedies,  desolating  pulses  of  Time,  shaking  human 
hearts  with  each  beat  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  ultima- 
tum of  sorrow.  She  knew  not  what  to  make  of  this  new 
morning  mood  of  Cuckoo,  and  wagged  a  heavily  pensive 
head  over  it,  unresponsive  and  muttering.  Jessie,  too, 
was  astonished,  but  more  pleasantly.  The  little  dog, 
dwelling  ignorantly  in  the  midst  of  degradation,  had 
learned  quickly  the  swing  of  its  beloved  mistress's 
moods.  In  the  dim  morning  it  was  ever  the  comforter 
of  misery  it  could  not  rightly  understand,  not  the  play- 
fellow of  happiness  that  stirred  it  to  leaps  and  barks  of 
wonder  and  excitement.  In  the  mornings  Cuckoo  held 
it  long  against  her  thin  bosom,  sometimes  crushed  it 
nearly  breathless,  pushing  its  little  head  down  in  the  nest 
of  her  arms  and  telling  it  a  tale  of  the  world's  woe  that 
sent  long  and  thin  whimpers  twittering  through  its  body. 
The  fluttering  whisper  of  morning  misery,  or  the  silence 


A   SHADOW   ON    FIRE  397 

of  vacant  fatigue,  these  were  accustomed  things  to  Jes- 
sie. Even  if  she  did  not  thoroughly  understand  them, 
she  was  ready  for  them,  and  eagerly  responsive,  as  dogs 
are,  to  emotions  along  whose  verges  they  tread  with  the 
soft  feet  of  sympathy,  the  sweeter  for  the  ignorance  that 
paints  their  generosity  in  such  tender  colours.  But  Jes- 
sie was  bouleversee  by  this  passionate,  eager  Cuckoo ;  this 
shadow  on  fire,  who  was  alive  almost  ere  London  was 
alive,  instead  of  half  dead  until  half  London  slept. 
The  shadow  on  fire  snatched  her  out  of  her  sleep,  tossed 
her  in  air,  spoke  to  her  with  a  voice  that  thrilled  her  to 
quick  barking  excitement,  played  with  her  till  the  little 
dog's  flux  of  emotions  threatened  to  consummate  in  a 
canine  apoplexy,  and  Mrs.  Brigg  battered  at  the  door 
with  a  shrill,  "  Keep  that  beast  quiet,  can't  yer?  "  All 
this  was  Cuckoo  fighting;  battle  in  the  bedclothes,  battle 
with  soap  and  water,  curling-pins,  corset,  shoes.  Each 
little  act  was  performed  with  an  energy  it  did  not  de- 
mand. The  sponge  was  squeezed  dry  like  a  live  thing 
being  strangled ;  the  toothbrush  played  as  Maxim  guns 
on  an  enemy;  buttons  went  into  button-holes  with  a 
manner  of  ramrods  going  into  muskets;  hooks  met  eyes 
as  one  army  meets  another.  Battle  in  all  that  morning's 
common  tasks,  setting  them  high,  dressing  them  with 
chivalry  and  strong  endeavour.  Cuckoo  went  into  her 
sitting  -room  swiftly,  with  glowing  cheeks  and  flaming 
eyes,  as  one  ardently  expectant.  And  then — ?  Mrs. 
Brigg  had  lit  the  fire,  but  it  had  spluttered  out  into  a 
mass  of  blackened,  ghostly  paper  and  skeleton  sticks. 
A  little  more  battle  in  the  relighting  of  it.  But  then  — 
the  blank  day  of  the  girl  of  the  streets.  Cuckoo  sat 
down,  watched  the  growing  fire,  and  wondered  what  she 
had  expected.  She  was  conscious  that  she  had  expected 
something,  and  something  not  small.  Her  mood  had 
demanded  it.  But  our  moods  are  often  like  disappointed 
brigands,  who,  having  waylaid  a  pauper,  demand  with 
levelled  pistols  that  which  the  pauper  has  so  vainly 
prayed  for  all  his  life.  Moods  come  from  within.  They 
are  not  evoked  to  dance  valses  with  suitable  partners 
from  without.  And  so  Cuckoo's  strong  excitement  and 
energy  found   nothing   to   dance   with.     She  sat  there 


398  FLAMES 

growing  gradually  less  alive,  and  wondering  why  she  had 
hastened  to  get  up;  why  she  was  fully  dressed  instead  of 
wrapped  in  the  usual  staring  pink  dressing-gown  with 
the  chiffon  cascades  down  the  front.  Mornings  were 
of  no  use  to  her  —  never  had  been.  God  might  as  well 
never  have  included  them  in  the  scheme  of  His  days,  so 
far  as  she  was  concerned.  But  this  morning  she  had 
thought,  had  felt  —  it  seemed  impossible  that  she  should 
feel  so  unusual  and  that  nothing  should  happen.  She 
was  ready,  but  Fate  was  in  bed  and  asleep.  That  was 
really  the  gist  of  the  feeling  that  came  over  her.  She 
thought  of  Dr.  Levillier,  the  man  who  had  set  a  torch  at 
last  to  her  nature  and  fired  it  with  a  new  ardour.  He 
was  at  his  work  in  the  morning,  seeing,  speaking  to, 
that  passing  line  of  strangers,  who  walked  on  forever 
through  his  life.  His  energies  were  employed.  Perhaps 
he  had  forgotten  Cuckoo  and  her  empty  mornings. 
Almost  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  the  lady  of  the  feath- 
ers definitely  longed  for  a  legitimate  occupation.  How 
she  could  have  flown  at  it  to-day.  But  already  the  bright 
mood  was  fading.  It  could  not  last  in  such  an  atmos- 
phere. As  Cuckoo  had  said,  she  could  fight  better  than 
she  could  pray.  But  it  seemed  to  her,  after  a  while,  that 
there  was  only  room  in  this  cheerless,  dark  house  to 
pray,  no  room  at  all  to  fight.  She  tried  reading  yes- 
terday's evening  paper,  left  on  the  horsehair  sofa  by 
Julian.  But  reading  had  never  been  a  favourite  occupa- 
tion of  hers,  and  to-day  she  wanted  to  save  Julian,  to 
make  him  love  her,  and  so  to  win  him  from  Valentine. 
She  did  not  want  to  sit  in  the  twilight  of  a  winter's  day 
reading  about  people  she  had  never  seen,  things  she  did 
not  understand.      And  she  threw  the  paper  down. 

To  make  Julian  love  her.  Cuckoo  flushed,  yes,  even 
sitting  there  quite  alone,  for  Jessie  had  retired  to  the 
warmth  of  the  bedroom  blankets,  as  she  said  it  in  her 
mind.  The  doctor  had  told  her  to  do  so.  Her  heart 
had  told  her  to  try  to  do  it  long  ago.  But  she 
trusted  the  doctor  and  she  did  not  trust  her  heart.  And 
how  could  she  trust  her  power  to  make  Julian  love  her? 
Cuckoo  had  once  known  very  well  how  to  make  a  man 
desire  her.      In  the  very  early  days  of  her  career  she  had 


A   SHADOW   ON   FIRE  399 

been  a  very  pretty  girl.  Her  old  mother,  who  believed 
her  dead,  had  often  cried  and  said  to  the  neighbours  that 
her  beauty  had  been  Cuckoo's  undoing.  Thus  do  we  lay 
blame  on  the  few  fine  gifts  that  should  gild  our  lives. 
But  Cuckoo  had  been  very  pretty  and  had  soon  learnt 
the  first  foul  lesson  of  her  metier^  to  wake  swift  desire. 
As  time  went  on  and  she  wasted  her  gift  of  beauty  along 
the  pavements  of  London,  she  found  this  poor  power 
failing  in  strength  and  in  certainty.  As  to  the  power  of 
wakening  that  slower,  deeper,  kindred,  yet  opposed 
desire  of  love,  Cuckoo  had  never  known  whether  she 
possessed  it.  She  had  had  many  lovers,  but  nobody  to 
love  her  really,  and  this  in  days  of  her  beauty,  or  at  any 
rate  her  gracious  prettiness.  No  wonder,  then,  that 
now  a  chill  ran  over  her  at  the  thought  of  the  task  that 
lay  before  her  if  she  was  to  gain  her  battle.  To  break 
Valentine's  influence  she  had  to  make  Julian  love  her. 
How?  Instinctively,  and  with  a  sense  of  horror,  she 
knew  that  her  usual  practised  arts,  instead  of  helping, 
almost  fatally  handicapped  her  now.  She  loved  Julian 
purely,  so  purely  that  she  could  not  endure  that  he  should 
meet  her  degradation  as  he  had  met  it  on  that  one  night 
she  never  thought  of  but  with  repentance.  Yet  to  her 
ignorance,  to  her,  rising  towards  purity  now,  yet  ever 
steeped  in  the  coarsest  knowledge,  it  seemed  that  the 
thing  called  love  could  hardly  utter  itself  save  by  some 
threadbare  blandishment,  or  parrot  combination  of  words, 
used  each  night  by  a  hundred  women  of  the  town. 
Cuckoo  knew  no  language  of  love  that  was  not,  so  to  say, 
bad  language,  inasmuch  as  it  was  used  by  those  whom 
she  hated.  And  hitherto  she  had  been  content  to  keep 
her  love  for  Julian  a  silent  love,  except  on  the  few  occa- 
sions when  she  had  obliquely  showed  it  by  the  anger  of 
jealousy  or  of  reproach.  She  wished  nothing  bodily 
from  him,  or  if  she  did,  stifled  the  wish  in  the  mutely 
repeated  record  of  her  own  unworthiness.  But  now,  if 
she  was  to  draw  his  soul  to  hers,  she  must  move  for- 
ward, she  must  surely  commit  some  sacrifice,  perform 
some  deed.  What  deed  could  she  perform?  What  sacri- 
fice could  she  make  that  would  win  upon  him,  that  would 
alter  his   relation   towards   her  from   one   of  eccentric 


40O  FLAMES 

friendship    to    one    of    affection    that    might    even   be 
governed? 

The  lady  of  the  feathers  did  not  reason  this  all  out  in 
her  mind  as  she  sat  before  the  spluttering  fire,  but  she 
felt  it,  a  tangled  mass  of  thoughts,  catching  her  brain 
as  in  a  net,  catching  her  life  as  in  a  net  too.  How 
could  she  make  Julian  love  her?  What  could  she  do? 
And  all  the  time,  as  she  asked  herself  passionately  that 
question,  the  hours  were  gliding  by  towards  the  evening 
refrain  of  her  life.  Cuckoo  began  to  consider  this  even- 
ing refrain  as  she  had  never  considered  it  before,  as  it 
might  affect  another  if  he  loved  her.  If  she  made  Julian 
love  her,  if  she  succeeded  in  this  attempt  that  seemed  as 
if  it  must  be  impossible,  what  of  her  evening  refrain 
then?  And  what  would  be  the  conclusion  of  such  a 
love?  She  could  not  tell;  she  could  only  wonder.  The 
strange  thing  about  the  lady  of  the  feathers,  and  about 
many  of  her  kind,  was,  that  she  never  dreamed  of  such  a 
thing  as  owing  a  duty  to  herself,  to  her  own  body,  her 
own  soul,  or  nature.  Cuckoo  knew  not  the  meaning  of 
self-respect.  Had  you  told  her  that  her  body  was  a 
temple  —  not  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  but  of  a  wonderful, 
exquisite  thing  called  womanhood,  and  for  that  reason 
should  not  be  defiled,  she  would  have  stared  at  you 
under  drawn  eyebrows,  like  a  fierce  boy,  and  wondered 
what  in  heaven  or  earth  you  were  talking  jargon  about. 
To  get  at  her  sympathy  you  must  talk  to  her  of  duty  to 
another;  and  if  she  had  a  soft  feeling  for  that  other, 
then  she  understood  you,  and  then  alone.  It  was  the 
cause  of  Julian  and  his  safety  that  made  her  now  con- 
sider this  evening  refrain  of  her  life  as  she  sat  there. 
And  her  mind  ran  back  to  Julian's  first  visit  to  her  and 
to  his  first  request.  He  asked  her  to  stay  at  home  just 
for  one  night  with  Jessie.  And  she  refused.  If  she 
had  not  refused.  If  she  had  stayed  at  home.  If  she 
had  at  that  moment,  from  that  moment,  given  up  her 
life  of  the  street,  would  Julian  have  loved  her  then? 
Would  she  have  iDeen  able  to  do  something  for  him? 
For  hours  Cuckoo  sat  there  pondering  in  her  vague, 
desolate  way  over   questions   such  as   these.     But   she 


A   SHADOW   ON    FIRE  401 

could  give  no  answer  to  them.  And  then  she  thought  of 
that  horrible  night  when  the  hours  danced  to  the  music 
of  the  devil,  when  she  gave  Julian  that  first  little  im- 
petus which  started  him  on  his  journey  to  the  abyss. 
And  at  that  thought  she  grew  white,  and  she  grew  hot, 
and  she  wondered  why  she  had  been  born  to  be  the  lady 
of  the  feathers,  and  the  wrecker,  not  of  men's  lives  — 
she  never  thought  of  men  tenderly  in  the  mass  —  but  of 
this  one  life,  of  this  one  man,  whom  she  loved  in  a 
strange,  wild,  good-woman  way. 

"  C-r-r-r !  "  she  said,  her  tongue  flickering  against  her 
teeth.  Jessie  stirred  in  the  blankets,  came  to  the  floor 
with  a  "  t'bb  "  and  ran  into  the  room  with  curved  atti- 
tudes of  submission.  But  Cuckoo  would  not  notice  the 
little  dog.  She  stared  at  the  fire  and  looked  so  old,  and 
almost  intellectual.  But  there  was  nobody  to  see  her. 
What  a  long,  empty  day  it  had  been,  this  day  for  which 
she  had  risen  eagerly  as  to  a  day  of  battle!  What  a 
long,  empty  day,  and  no  deed  done  in  it.  And  now  the 
hour  of  the  evening  refrain  was  come.  Cuckoo  had 
wanted  this  day  to  be  a  special  day,  for  it  was  the  first  of 
those  new  days  which  were  to  come  after  the  doctor's 
word  of  hope.  And  nothing  had  happened  in  it. 
Nobody  had  come.  The  doctor  was  with  his  patients. 
Julian  was  —  ah,  surely  —  with  Valentine.  And  she, 
Cuckoo,  this  poor,  pale  girl,  who  wanted  to  fight  and  to 
do  battle,  was  alone.  And  she  had  been  so  eager  in  the 
morning.  And  now  the  night  was  falling  and  she  had 
not  struck  a  blow.  The  hour  chimed.  It  was  the  hour 
of  the  evening  refrain. 

Suddenly  Cuckoo  got  up.  She  went  over  to  the  win- 
dow and  pulled  down  the  blind  so  sharply  that  she  nearly 
broke  it.  She  struck  a  match  violently  and  lit  the  gas. 
She  ran  into  the  bedroom,  caught  her  hat,  which  lay 
ready  for  service  on  the  top  of  the  chest  of  drawers,  and 
cast  it  with  a  crash  into  a  cardboard  box,  jamming 
the  lid  down  on  it.  She  seized  her  jacket,  which  lay  on 
the  bed,  and  strung  it  up  on  a  hook,  as  if  she  were  hang- 
ing a  criminal.  Then  she  came  back  into  the  sitting- 
room,  sat  down  in  the  chair,  took  up  the  evening  paper 


402  FLAMES 

of  yesterday  and  began  to  read,  with  eyes  that  gleamed 
under  frowning  brows,  about  "Foreign  Affairs"  and 
"  Bimetallism." 

And  that  night  the  evening  refrain  of  Cuckoo's  life 
did  not  follow  the  verse  of  her  day. 

She  sat  there  all  alone. 

It  was  her  way  —  the  only  way  she  could  devise  —  of 
beginning  to  fight  the  battle  for  Julian. 

She  did  not  stay  at  home  with  any  thought  of  purify- 
ing herself  by  the  action.  Another  day  she  might  go 
out  as  usual.  But  Julian  had  once  asked  her  not  to  go. 
She  had  gone  then.  Now  she  obeyed  him,  and  the 
obedience  seemed  to  bring  him  a  little  nearer  to  her. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  DOCTOR  DRIVES  OUT  WITH  THE  LADY  OF 
THE  FEATHERS 

Some  days  later  Cuckoo  received  a  telegram  from 
Harley  Street.  It  came  in  the  morning,  and  ran  as 
follows: 

' '  Call  here  to-day  if  possible.    Important.    Levillier. ' ' 

Cuckoo  read  it,  trembling.  In  her  early  days  telegrams 
came  often  to  her  door — "Meet  me  at  Verrey's,  four- 
thirty  " ;  '*  Piccadilly  Circus,  five  o'clock  to-day. "  Such 
messages  flickered  through  her  youth,  forming  gradu- 
ally a  legend  of  her  life.  But  this  summons  from  the 
doctor  at  the  same  time  frightened  her  and  braced  her 
heart.  It  might  mean  that  Julian  was  ill,  in  danger  — 
she  knew  not  what.  But  at  least  it  broke  through  the 
appalling  inaction,  the  dreary  stagnation,  of  her  days. 
The  lady  of  the  feathers  had  fought  indeed,  of  late,  that 
worst  enemy,  mental  despair,  bred  of  grim  patience  at 
last  grown  weary.  That  was  not  the  battle  she  had 
been  inspired  to  expect,  to  prepare  for.  The  doctor's 
telegram  at  least  swept  the  unforeseen  foe  from  the  field, 
and  seemed  to  set  the  real  enemy  full  in  view. 

"There  ain't  any  answer, "  the  lady  of  the  feathers 
said  to  Mrs.  Brigg,  who  waited  in  an  attitude  expressive 
of  greedy  curiosity. 

"Which  of  'em  is  it?  "  demanded  that  functionary. 

"Shan't  tell  you,"  Cuckoo  hissed  at  her. 

The  filthy  groove  in  which  the  landlady's  mind  for- 
ever ran  began  to  rouse  her  to  an  intense  animosity. 

"Well,  it  's  all  one  to  me  so  long  as  I  'm  paid  regu- 
lar," muttered  Mrs.  Brigg,  with  a  swing  of  her  dusty 
skirts  and  a  toss  of  her  grey  head,  governed  by  pomade, 
since  it  was  a  Saturday.     Mrs.  Brigg  must  once  have 

403 


404  FLAMES 

held  Christian  principles,   as  she  always  prepared  the 
ground  for  certain  Sabbath  curls  the  day  before. 

Cuckoo  ran  to  dress  herself.  It  was  seldom  indeed 
that  she  stirred  out  in  the  morning,  so  seldom  that  that 
alone  was  an  experience.  Arrived  in  the  bedroom,  she 
pounced  mechanically  on  rouge  and  powder,  and  was 
about  to  decorate  herself  when  she  suddenly  paused 
with  outstretched  hands.  She  was  going  out  into  the 
bright  wintry  sunlight,  and  she  was  going  to  the  doctor's 
house,  full,  perhaps,  of  those  smart  patients  of  whom 
Valentine  had  once  spoken  to  her.  What  sort  of  an 
apparition  would  she  be  among  them?  She  dropped  her 
hands,  hesitating.  Then  she  turned  to  a  cupboard,  drew 
out  the  one  famous  black  gown,  and  put  it  on.  She 
crowned  her  head  with  Julian's  hat,  hid  her  hands  in 
black  silk  gloves,  pulled  down  her  veil  and  seized  an 
umbrella.  Somehow  Cuckoo  vaguely  connected  respecta- 
bility with  umbrellas,  although  even  the  most  vicious  are 
fain  to  carry  them  in  showery  London.  Then  she  looked 
at  herself  in  the  glass  and  wondered  if  her  appearance  were 
deceptive  enough  to  trick  the  sharp  eyes  of  the  patients. 
The  glance  reassured  her.  She  seemed  to  herself  an 
epitome  of  black  propriety,  and  she  set  forth  with  a 
more  easy  heart.  As  she  walked,  her  mind  ran  on  be- 
fore, seeking  what  this  summons  meant  and  debating 
possibilities  without  arriving  at  conclusions.  At  the  end 
of  Harley  Street  her  walk,  which  had  been  rapid, 
achieved  a  ritardando  and  nearly  came  to  a  full  close  be- 
fore she  gained  the  doctor's  door.  Cuckoo  could  be  a 
brazen  hussy.  A  year  ago  she  could  scarcely  be  any- 
thing else.  But  that  love  of  hers  for  Julian  had,  it 
seemed,  a  strange  power  of  undermining  old  habits.  It 
laid  hands  upon  so  many  perceptions,  so  many  emo- 
tions, with  which  it  should  surely  have  had  nothing  to  do, 
and  made  subtle  inroads  upon  every  dark  corner  of  the 
girl's  nature.  From  it  came  this  ritardando.  For 
Cuckoo  was  filled  with  a  very  human  dread  of  exposing 
Doctor  Levillier  to  misconception  by  her  appearance  in 
the  midst  of  his  patients.  Had  it  been  late  afternoon 
instead  of  morning  her  fortitude  would  certainly  have 
been  greater,  and  might  even  have  drawn  near  to  impu- 


THE    DOCTOR   DRIVES   OUT  405 

dence.  But  the  clear  light  of  approaching  noontide  set 
her  mind  blinking  with  rapid  eyelids,  and  when  she  actu- 
ally gained  the  street  door  her  discomfort  was  acute. 

As  she  put  up  her  hand  to  touch  the  bell  the  door 
opened  softly  and  a  stout  Duchess  issued  forth.  Cuckoo 
did  n't  know  she  was  a  Duchess,  but  she  quailed  before 
the  plethoric  glance  cast  upon  her,  and  her  voice  was 
uneven  as  she  asked  for  the  doctor. 

"  Have  you  an  appointment,  ma'am?  "  asked  Lawler, 
who  did  not  recognize  her  behind  her  black  veil. 

"I  was  asked  to  come,"  Cuckoo  murmured. 

"What  name,  ma'am?  " 

"Cuck— Miss  Bright." 

She  was  admitted.  The  doctor,  in  a  hurry  of  busi- 
ness, had  omitted  to  give  Lawler  any  instructions  in  the 
event  of  Cuckoo's  prompt  response  to  his  telegram.  So 
she  was  shown  into  the  waiting-room,  in  which  three  or 
four  people  were  turning  over  illustrated  papers  with  an 
air  of  watchful  idleness  and  attentive  leisure.  Cuckoo 
sat  down  in  a  corner  as  quietly  as  possible,  and  Lawler 
vanished.  The  leaves  of  the  illustrated  papers  rustled 
in  the  air  with  a  dry  sound.  To  Cuckoo  they  seemed  to 
be  crackling  personal  remarks  about  her,  and  to  be  im- 
pregnated with  condemnation.  She  cast  a  furtive  glance 
upon  the  square  room  and  perceived  that  they  were 
returned  by  four  ladies,  and  that  three  of  these  ladies 
were  looking  straight  at  her.  The  eight  eyes  met  in  a 
glance  of  inquiry  and  were  instantly  cast  down.  Again 
the  leaves  of  the  illustrateds  rustled,  this  time,  Cuckoo 
felt  convinced,  more  fiercely  than  before.  The  frou- 
frou of  the  skirts  of  one  of  the  ladies  joined  in  the 
chorus,  which  was  far  from  crying  "Hallelujah!" 
Cuckoo  began  to  feel  a  growing  certainty  that,  despite 
the  black  veil  and  the  neat  umbrella,  feminine  instinct 
had  divined  her.  She  was  totally  unaccustomed  to  such 
an  atmosphere  as  that  which  prevailed  in  this  room,  and 
began  to  be  the  victim  of  an  odd,  prickly  sensation, 
which  she  believed  to  be  physical,  but  which  was  cer- 
tainly more  than  half  moral.  A  wave  of  heat  ran  over 
her  body.  It  was  like  the  heat  which  follows  on  a  re- 
ceived slap.     One   of  the  illustrateds  deleted  its  voice 


4o6  FLAMES 

from  the  general  chorus.  Cuckoo  was  aware  of  this, 
and  looked  up  again  to  find  two  eyes  fixed  upon  her  with 
an  expression  of  thin  distaste  that  was  incapable  of  mis- 
interpretation. A  second  illustrated  ceased  to  sing,  two 
heads  were  inclined  towards  one  another,  and  the  "  t'p, 
t'p,  t*p  "  of  a  low  whisper  set  the  remaining  two  ladies 
at  their  posts  as  sentinels  on  the  lady  of  the  feathers. 

Cuckoo  put  her  hand  to  her  face  to  pull  her  veil  a  little 
lower  down.  By  accident  she  tugged  too  hard,  or  it  had 
been  badly  fastened  to  her  hat,  for  one  side  got  loose 
instantly  and  it  fell  down,  revealing  her  face  frankly. 

The  "t'p,  t'p,  t'p"  sounded  again,  multiplied  by 
two.  Cuckoo,  thrown  into  confusion  by  the  malign  be- 
haviour of  her  veil,  caught  awkwardly  at  the  dropped 
end  with  an  intention  of  readjusting  it,  but  something  in 
the  sound  of  the  whispering  suddenly  moved  her  to  a 
different  action.  She  snatched  the  veil  quite  off,  set  her 
feet  firmly  against  the  thick  Turkey  carpet,  raised  her 
eyes  and  stared  with  all  her  might  at  the  four  ladies, 
hurling,  as  a  man  hurls  a  bomb,  an  expression  of  savage 
defiance  into  her  gaze.  The  whispers  stopped;  a  thin 
and  repeated  cough,  dry  as  Sahara,  attacked  the  silence, 
and  eight  eyes  were  vehemently  cast  down.  Cuckoo 
continued  staring,  folding  her  hands  in  her  lap.  The 
prickly  sensation  increased,  but  she  considered  it  now  as 
a  thing  to  be  jumped  on.  Recognizing  that  she  was 
recognized,  she  was  instantly  moved  to  play  up  to  her 
part,  and  she  longed  to  stare  the  four  women  out  into 
Harley  Street.  If  the  energy  of  a  gaze  could  have 
achieved  that  object,  they  must  have  backed  through  the 
doctor's  plate  glass  into  the  area  forthwith.  They  were, 
in  fact,  most  obviously  moved,  and  their  attitudes  ex- 
pressed, by  a  community  of  lines,  virtue  rampant  and 
agitation  gules.  A  shattering  silence  endured  till  Lawler 
appeared  to  bid  two  of  these  virgins  with  lit  lamps  of 
self-righteousness  to  the  consulting-room.  As  they  rose 
the  two  other  ladies  rose  also  and  followed  in  their  wake. 
Lawler  politely  protested,  but  they  were  now  to  proclaim 
their  beauty  of  character. 

"We  should  prefer  to  wait  in  another  room,"  said  the 
lady  who  had  coughed  as  a  communication  with  heaven. 


THE   DOCTOR    DRIVES   OUT  407 

"Yes,  another  room,"  added  the  other,  and  as  she 
spoke  she  half  turned,  indicating  the  corner  where 
Cuckoo  sat. 

Without  a  word  Lawler  showed  them  out  and  closed 
the  door.  For  another  twenty  minutes  Cuckoo  sat  alone, 
glaring  at  the  table  by  which  these  members  of  her  sex 
had  sat,  and  seeing  no  material  objects  but  only — as  is 
the  way  of  humanity — her  own  point  of  view.  The  ladies 
saw  only  theirs.  In  this  respect,  at  least,  they  closely 
resembled  the  lady  of  the  feathers.  When  Lawler  at 
length  returned  with  his  grave:  "This  way,  if  you  please, 
ma'am,"  Cuckoo  rose  to  her  feet  with  the  inflexibility  of 
some  iron  thing  set  in  motion  by  mechanism,  and  marched 
in  his  wake  to  the  doctor's  presence. 

The  doctor  was  standing  up  by  a  bright  fire ;  he  looked 
very  grave. 

"I  am  very  sorry  to  have  kept  you,"  he  said,  "very 
sorry.     I  did  not  think  you  could  get  here  so  quickly." 

Cuckoo  cleared  her  throat. 

"  I  wish  I  had  n't,"  she  answered  bluntly. 

"Why?" 

"It  don't  matter.  I  started  directly  your  wire 
came." 

"That  was  good  of  you.     Please  sit  down." 

Cuckoo  sat  with  a  straight  back  in  the  straightest 
chair  she  could  perceive.  The  doctor  still  remained 
standing  by  the  fire.  He  appeared  to  be  thinking  deeply. 
His  eyes  looked  downward  at  his  gaily  shining  boots. 
After  a  minute  or  two  he  said : 

"I  speak  to  you  now  in  strict  confidence,  trusting 
your  secrecy  implicitly." 

The  back  of  Cuckoo  became  less  straight.  Even  a 
gentle  curve  made  it  more  gracious  if  less  admirable 
from  the  dancing-mistress  point  of  view. 

"  Honour!  "  she  interjected  rapidly,  like  a  schoolboy. 

The  doctor  looked  up  at  her  and  a  smile  came  to  his 
lips.  And  as  he  looked  up  he  noticed  the  neatness  of 
her  black  gown,  the  simplicity  of  her  hat,  the  absence  of 
paint  and  powder.  Being,  after  all,  only  a  man,  he  was 
surprised  at  Cuckoo's  appearance  of  propriety.  The 
four  ladies  had  been  surprised  at  her  appearance  of  im- 


4o8  FLAMES 

propriety.  But  the  doctor,  seeing  her  so  much  better 
than  usual,  thought  her — in  looks — quite  well,  as  indeed 
she  was  in  comparison  with  the  tout  e7isemble  of  her  usual 
days.  He  looked  from  her  black  gloves,  which  held  the 
thick  black  veil,  to  the  winter  sunshine  sparkling,  like  a 
dancing,  eager  child,  at  the  window. 

"  Do  you  like  driving?  "  he  said. 

"What?" 

"  Driving  —  do  you  like  it?  " 

"Pretty  well,  if  the  horse  don't  come  down,"  said 
Cuckoo,  at  once  concentrated  on  cabs. 

"  My  horses  won't." 

"Yours!" 

"Yes.  I  have  no  more  patients  to-day.  I  have  a 
half-holiday  and  I  want  to  talk  to  you.  Shall  we  go 
for  a  drive  to  Hampstead  and  talk  out  in  the  open  air 
and  the  sunshine?  " 

The  four  ladies,  the  illustrateds,  the  cough,  dry  as 
Sahara,  were  instantly  forgotten.  Cuckoo  became  all 
curves,  almost  like  Jessie  in  moments  of  supreme  emo- 
tion. 

"  Me  and  you?  "  she  exclaimed.      "  Oh  yes!  " 

The  doctor  rang  the  bell. 

"Take  this  lady  to  the  dining-room  and  give  her 
some  lunch,"  he  said  to  Lawler.  "And  please  order  the 
victoria  round  at  once. " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  While  you  lunch,"  he  said  to  Cuckoo,  "I'll  just 
get  through  two  letters  that  must  be  written,  and  then 
we'll  start." 

Cuckoo  followed  Lawler  with  a  sense  of  airy  wonder 
and  delight. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  she  was  seated  with  the 
doctor  in  the  victoria,  the  veil  tightly  stretched  across 
her  face,  her  poor  mode  of  living  up  to  his  trust  in  her, 
and  deserving  the  honour  now  conferred  upon  her.  The 
coachman  let  his  horses  go,  and  Harley  Street  was  left 
behind.  Such  a  bright  day  it  was.  Even  the  cold  seemed 
a  gay  and  festive  thing,  spinning  the  circulation  like  a 
gold  coin  till  it  glittered,  decorating  the  poorest  cheeks 
with  the  brightest  rose  as  if  in  honour  of  a  festival.     To 


THE    DOCTOR    DRIVES   OUT  409 

Cuckoo  London,  as  seen  from  a  private  carriage,  was  a 
wonder  and  a  dream  of  novelty,  a  city  of  kings  instead 
of  a  city  of  beggars,  a  city  of  crystal  morning  instead 
of  a  city  of  dreadful  night.  She  gazed  at  it  out  of  a  new 
heart  as  these  horses  —  that  never  came  down  —  trotted 
briskly  forward.  Through  the  silk  of  her  gloves  her 
thumbs  and  fingers  felt  silently  the  warm  sables  of  the 
rug  that  caressed  her  knees.  And  she  thought  that  this 
feeling,  and  the  feeling  in  her  heart,  must  be  constitu- 
ent parts  of  the  emotion  called  happiness.  If  the  four 
ladies  could  see  her  now!  If  they  could  see  her  now. 
Cuckoo  thought,  she  would  take  off  her  veil,  just  for  a 
moment.  When  the  aspect  of  the  street  began  to 
change,  when  little  gardens  appeared,  and  bare  trees 
standing  bravely  in  the  sun  behind  high  walls  and  iron 
gates,  the  doctor  said  to  Cuckoo: 

"  Now  I  will  tell  you  why  I  telegraphed  to  you." 

And  then  Cuckoo  remembered  that  she  was  in  this 
wonderful  expedition  for  a  reason.  The  doctor  con- 
tinued speaking  in  a  low  voice,  with  the  obvious  inten- 
tion of  being  inaudible  to  the  coachman,  whose  large 
furred  back  presented  an  appearance  of  broad  indiffer- 
ence to  their  two  lives. 

"You  remember  what  I  said  to  you  the  other  day  — 
that  perhaps  you  could  help  Julian  from  great  evil." 

Cuckoo  nodded  earnestly. 

"  And  vou  are  prepared  to  do  anything  you  can?  " 

"Yes." 

She  had  forgotten  the  smart  carriage,  and  the  horses 
that  never  came  down,  now. 

"  Good,"  said  the  doctor,  shortly  and  decisively.  "  I 
will  speak  to  you  quite  plainly  to-day,  for  something 
leads  me  to  trust  you,  and  to  say  to  you  what  I  would 
say  to  no  other  person.  Something  leads  me  to  believe 
that  you  can  do  more  for  Addison  than  any  one  else. 
Addison  once  implied  it;  but  what  I  have  observed  for 
myself  in  your  house  leads  me  to  be  certain  of  it." 

"  Oh,"  said  Cuckoo. 

She  had  nothing  more  to  say.  She  could  have  said 
nothing  more.  The  stress  of  her  excitement  was  too 
great. 


4IO  FLAMES 

"  Look  at  that  holly  tree.  What  a  quantity  of  berries 
it  has!  "  the  doctor  said.  "That 's  because  it  is  a  hard 
winter.  Miss  Bright,  you  are  right  in  you  conviction. 
Valentine  Cresswell  is  —  has  been  —  totally  evil,  and  is 
deliberately,  coldly,  but  with  determination,  compass- 
ing the  utter  ruin  of  the  man  who  trusts  him  and  believes 
in  him  —  of  Addison. " 

Cuckoo  nodded  again,  this  time  with  a  strangely  mat- 
ter-of-course air,  which  assured  the  doctor  in  a  flash  of 
the  long  certainty  of  her  knowledge  of  Valentine. 

"Such  a  thing  seemed  to  me  entirely  incredible," 
the  doctor  pursued.  "I  am  forced  —  forced  —  to  be- 
lieve it  is  true.  But  remember  this:  I  have  known  Mr. 
Cresswell  for  several  years  intimately.  I  have  been 
again  and  again  with  him  and  Julian.  I  have  noticed 
the  extraordinary  influence  he  had  over  Julian,  and  I 
know  that  influence  used  to  be  a  noble  influence,  used 
solely  for  good.  Mr.  Cresswell  was  a  man  of  extraordi- 
nary high-mindedness  and  purity  of  life.  He  had  a 
brilliant  intellect,"  the  doctor  continued,  forgetting  to 
whom  he  was  talking,  as  his  mind  went  back  to  the  Val- 
entine of  the  old  days.  "But,  far  more  than  that,  he 
was  born  with  a  very  wonderful  and  unusual  nature.  It 
was  written  in  his  face  in  the  grandeur  —  I  can  call  it 
nothing  else  —  of  his  expression.  And  it  was  written 
in  his  life,  in  all  his  acts.  But,  most  of  all  it  was  written 
in  all  he  did  for  Julian.     Ah,  you  look  surprised !  " 

Indeed  Cuckoo's  face,  such  of  it  as  was  visible  under 
the  black  shadow  of  the  veil,  was  a  mask  of  blank  won- 
derment. She  looked  upon  the  doctor  as  all  that  was 
clever  and  perfect  and  extraordinary;  so  this,  it  seemed 
to  her,  idiocy  of  his  outlook  upon  Valentine  was  too 
much  for  her  manner. 

"Well,  I  never!  Him!"  she  could  not  help  ejacu- 
lating with  a  long  breath,  that  was  almost  like  a  little 
puff. 

"  Remember, "  said  Dr.  Levillier,  "this  was  before 
you  knew  him." 

He  had  taken  the  trouble  to  ascertain  from  Julian  the 
exact  date  of  Valentine's  first  introduction  to  the  lady 
of  the  feathers. 


THE   DOCTOR    DRIVES   OUT  411 

**0h  yes,"  said  Cuckoo,  still  with  absolute  incredulity 
of  the  truth  of  the  doctor's  panegyric  expressed  in  voice 
and  look. 

"Men  change  greatly,  terribly." 

"  Oh,  not  like  that,"  she  jerked  out  suddenly,  moved 
by  an  irresistible  impulse  to  contradict  his  apparent  de- 
duction. 

"  No,  there  you  are  right,"  he  answered  with  empha- 
sis. "  Sane  men  do  not,  can  never,  I  believe,  change  so 
utterly." 

"  That 's  what  I  say.  I  've  seen  men  go  down,  lots  of 
*em,  but  it  ain't  like  that." 

Cuckoo  spoke  with  some  authority,  as  of  one  speak- 
ing from  depths  of  a  deep  experience.  She  put  her  hands 
under  the  warm  rug  with  a  sensation  of  something  that 
was  like  dignity  of  mind.  She  and  the  doctor  were  talk- 
ing on  equal  terms  of  intellectuality  just  at  this  moment. 
She  was  saying  sensible  things  and  he  was  obliged  to 
agree  with  her. 

"  Not  like  that,"  she  murmured  again  out  of  the  em- 
brace of  the  rug. 

He  turned  towards  her  so  that  he  could  see  her  more 
distinctly  and  make  his  words  more  impressive. 

"Remember  now  that  what  I  am  going  to  say  to  you 
must  not  be  mentioned  to  Julian  on  any  account,  or  to 
any  one,"  he  said. 

"I'll  remember.     Honour.     I  '11  never  tell." 

"I  have  a  very  sad  theory  to  explain  this  great 
change  in  Mr.  Cresswell,  from  what  he  was  as  I  knew 
him,  and  you  must  take  his  beauty  of  character  from  me 
—  to  what  he  is  as  you  and  I  know  him  now.  I  believe 
that  he  has  become  mad."  For  the  doctor  had  reso- 
lutely put  away  from  his  mind  the  fancies  called  up  in  it 
by  the  visit  of  Marr's  wife. 

Cuckoo  gave  a  little  cry  of  surprise,  then  hastily 
glanced  at  the  coachman's  back  and  pushed  her  hands 
under  the  rug  up  towards  her  mouth. 

"  Hush,"  said  the  doctor.      "  Only  listen  quietly." 

"Yes,  pardon,"  she  said.  "But  he  ain't  —  oh,  he 
can't  be." 

"  I  am  forced  to  think  it,  forced  to  think  it,"  the  doc- 


413  FLAMES 

tor  said,  with  pressure.  "  He  has,  in  great  measure, 
one  of  the  most  common,  most  universal,  of  the  fatuous 
beliefs  of  the  insane, — a  deep-rooted,  an  almost  incredi- 
ble belief  in  himself,  in  his  own  glory,  power,  will,  per- 
sonality." 

Cuckoo  tried  to  throw  in  some  remark  here,  but  he 
went  on  without  a  pause: 

"There  are  madmen  confined  in  asylums  all  over 
England  wno  think  themselves  the  Messiah  —  this  is  the 
commonest  form  of  religious  mania  —  emperors,  kings, 
regenerators  of  the  human  race,  doers  of  great  deeds 
that  must  bring  them  everlasting  fame.  On  all  other 
points  they  are  sane,  and  you  might  spend  hours  alone 
with  them  and  never  discover  the  one  crank  in  their  mind 
that  makes  the  whole  mind  out  of  joint.  So  you  have 
been  alone  with  Mr.  Cresswell  and  have  not  suspected 
him.  Yet  he  has  a  madness,  and  it  is  this  madness 
which  leads  him  to  this  frightful  conduct  of  his  towards 
Julian,  conduct  which  you  will  never  know  the  ex- 
tent of." 

Here  Cuckoo  succeeded  in  getting  in  a  remark: 

"Will,"  she  said,  catching  hold  of  that  one  word  and 
beginning  to  look  eager.  "That's  what  he  was  at  all 
the  time  he  was  talking  to  me  that  night.  Will,  he  says, 
is  this  and  that  and  the  other;  will,  he  says,  is  every- 
thin',  I  remember.  Will,  he  says,  is  my  God,  or  some- 
thin'  like  it.     He  did.     He  did." 

"Ah!  you  see;  even  you  have  noticed  it." 

"Yes;  but  he  ain't  mad,  though,"  Cuckoo  concluded, 
with  an  echo  of  that  obstinacy  which  she  could  never 
completely  conquer.  She  said  what  she  felt.  She  could 
not  help  it.  The  doctor  was  in  nowise  offended  by  this 
unskilled  opinion  opposed  to  his  skilled  one.  He  even 
smiled  slightly. 

"Why  do  you  say  that?  "  he  asked. 

"  He  's  too  sharp.     He  's  a  sight  too  sharp. " 

"  Madmen  are  very  cunning." 

"So  are  women,"  Cuckoo  exclaimed.  "I  could  see 
if  a  man  was  mad. " 

She  was  a  little  intoxicated  with  the  swift  motion,  the 
bright  sun,  the  keen  air,  the  clang  of  the  horse's  hoofs  on 


THE    DOCTOR   DRIVES   OUT  413 

the  hard  roads,  and,  most  of  all,  with  this  conference 
which  the  bef  urred  coachman  was  on  no  account  to  hear. 
This  made  her  hold  fast  to  her  opinion,  with  no  thought 
of  being  rude  or  presuming.  The  doctor,  accustomed 
to  have  duchesses  and  others  hanging  upon  his  words  of 
wisdom,  was  whipped  into  a  refreshed  humour  by  this 
odd  attitude  of  an  ignorant  girl,  and  he  replied  with  ex- 
treme vivacity: 

"You  will  think  as  I  do  one  day.  Meanwhile  listen  to 
me.  When  Mr.  Cresswell  came  to  you  and  broke  out 
into  this  tirade,  which  you  say  you  remember,  on  the 
subject  of  will,  did  he  not  show  any  excitement?  " 

"Eh?" 

"  Did  he  get  excited,  very  hot  and  eager?  Did  he 
speak  unusually  loud,  or  make  any  curious  gestures  with 
his  hands?  Did  he  do  anything,  that  you  can  remember, 
such  as  an  ordinary  man  would  not  do?  " 

"Why,  yes,"  Cuckoo  answered.      "  So  he  did." 

"Ah!     What  was  it?     What  did  he  do?  " 

"  Well,  after  he  'd  been  talkin'  a  bit  he  caught  hold  of 
me  and  pulled  me  in  front  of  the  glass.     See?" 

"Yes,  yes." 

"  And  he  made  me  look  into  it." 

"What  for?" 

But  at  this  point  Cuckoo  got  restive. 

"I — I  can't  remember,"  she  murmured,  almost  sul- 
lenly, recalling  Valentine's  bitter  sarcasms  on  her  appear- 
ance and  way  of  life. 

"Never  mind,  then.  Leave  that.  But  after;  what 
came  next?  " 

"While  we  was  standin'  like  that  he  seemed  to  get 
frightened  or  somethin',  like  he  saw  somethin'  in  the 
glass.  He  was  frightened,  scared,  and  he  hit  out  all  on 
a  sudden,  just  where  my  face  was  in  the  glass,  and 
smashed  it." 

"  Smashed  the  glass?  " 

"  Yes.  And  then  he  snatched  hold  of  me  and  looked 
in  my  eyes  awful  queer,  and  then  he  burst  out  laughin' 
and  says  as  the  mirror  wastellin'  him  lies.     That's  all." 

"  He  was  perfectly  sober?  " 

"  Oh,  he  had  n't  been  on  the  booze." 


414  FLAMES 

"Sober  and  did  that,  and  then  you  can  tell  me  that 
there  is  no  madness  in  him." 

The  doctor  spoke  almost  in  a  bantering  tone,  but 
Cuckoo  stuck  to  her  guns. 

"I  don't  think  it,"  she  said,  with  her  under  lip  stick- 
ing out. 

**  Well,  Miss  Bright,  I  want  you  to  assume  something. " 

"What's  that?" 

**  To  pretend  to  yourself  that  you  think  something, 
whether  you  do  really  think  it  or  not. " 

"  Make  believe!  "  cried  Cuckoo,  childishly. 

"Exactly." 

"What  about?" 

"  I  want  you  to  'make  believe  '  that  Mr.  Cresswell  is 
not  himself — is  not  sane." 

"O-oh-h!"  said  Cuckoo,  with  a  long  intonation  of 
surprise. 

"I  do  honestly  believe  it;  you  are  to  pretend  to 
believe  it.     Now,  remember  that." 

"All  right." 

"You  are  not  to  contradict  any  more,  you  see." 

"Oh,"  began  Cuckoo,  in  sudden  distress.  "Pardon. 
I  didn't—" 

"Hush!  That's  all  right.  Act  with  me  on  the 
make-believe  or  assumption  that  Mr.  Cresswell  is  not 
himself  at  present," 

"Ah,  but  that  ain't  no  make-believe;  He  told  me 
as  he  was  n't  himself  when  he  says,   'I  am  Marr. '  " 

"Yes  —  yes,"  said  the  doctor.  Secretly,  almost 
angrily,  he  said  to  himself  that  Valentine,  in  some  access 
of  insanity,  had  actually  confessed  to  the  lady  of  the 
feathers  that  he  knew  himself  to  be  mad. 

"  He  says  he  ain't  himself,"  she  repeated  again,  with 
an  eager  feeling  that  perhaps,  at  last,  she  had  got  at  the 
right  interpretation  of  the  gospel  of  Valentine. 

"  That  is  practically  the  same  thing  as  his  saying  to 
you  that  he  was  mad.  Now  you  have  told  me  what  you 
feel  for  Julian." 

Cuckoo  flushed, and  muttered  something  unintelligible, 
twining  her  hands  in  the  sables  till  she  nearly  pulled 
them  from  Doctor  Levillier's  knees. 


THE   DOCTOR    DRIVES    OUT  415 

"And  you  have  seen  the  terrible  change  that  has 
come  over  him,  and  that  is  fast,  fast  deepening  to  some- 
thing that  must  end  in  utter  ruin.  You  have  not  seen 
him  these  last  few  days,  I  think?  " 

"No,"  said  Cuckoo,  her  eyes  fixed  hungrily  on  the 
doctor's  face.  She  began  to  tug  at  her  veil.  *'  What 's 
it?     Is  he —  is  he?  " 

She  collapsed  into  a  nervous  silence,  still  tugging  with 
a  futile  hand  at  the  veil  which  remained  implacably 
stretched  across  her  face.  The  doctor  looked  at  her, 
and  said  steadily: 

' '  He  has  gone  a  little  further — down.  You  understand 
me?" 

"I  ought  to,"  she  said,  bitterly. 

"  As  you  are  mounting  upward,"  the  doctor  rejoined, 
with  a  kind  and  firm  gravity  that  seemed  indeed  to  lift 
Cuckoo,  as  a  sweet  wind  lifts  a  feather  and  sends  it  on 
high. 

The  bitterness  went  out  of  her  face,  but  she  said 
nothing,  only  sat  listening  attentively  while  the  doctor 
went  on: 

"  My  belief  is  this,  and  if  you  hold  it  you  can  perhaps 
act  in  this  matter  with  more  boldness,  more  fearlessness, 
than  if  you  do  not  hold  it.  I  believe  that  Mr.  Cresswell, 
who  played  very  foolish  tricks  with  his  nerves  some  time 
ago,  just  before  he  got  to  know  you,  has  become  mad  to 
this  extent,  that  he  believes  himself  to  have  a  power  of 
will  unlike  that  possessed  by  any  other  man, — an  inhuman 
power,  in  fact.  He  fancies  that  he  has  the  will  of  a  sort 
of  god,  and  he  wishes  to  prove  this  to  himself  more 
especially.  Everything  is  for  self  in  a  madman.  Now 
he  looks  about  for  a  means  of  proving  that  his  will  can  do 
everything.  He  wants  to  make  it  do  something  extraor- 
dinary, uncommon.  What  does  he  find  for  it  to  do? 
This,  the  ruin  of  Julian.  And  now  I  Ml  tell  you  why  this 
ruin  of  Julian  would  be  a  peculiar  triumph  for  his  will. 
Originally,  when  Cresswell  was  sane  and  splendid,  his 
splendour  of  sanity  guarded  Julian  from  all  that  was 
dangerous.  Julian  was  naturally  inclined  to  be  wild. 
He  has  an  ardent  nature,  and  five  years  ago,  when  he 
was  a  mere  boy,  might  have  fallen  into  a  thousand  follies. 


4i6  FLAMES 

Cresswell's  influence  first  kept  him  from  these  follies, 
and  at  last  taught  him  to  loathe  and  despise  them.  And 
Julian,  remember  this,  told  Cresswell  at  last  that  he  had 
been  to  him  a  sort  of  saviour.     You  can  follow  me?  " 

**  'M,"  Cuckoo  ejaculated  with  shut  mouth  and  a  nod 
of  her  head. 

*'  So  that  Cresswell  knew  what  his  will  had  been  able  to 
do  in  the  direction  of  lifting  Julian  high  up,  almost  above 
his  nature.  Well,  then  followed  certain  foolish  practices 
which  I  need  not  describe.  Cresswell  and  Julian  joined 
in  a  certain  trickery,  often  practised  by  people  who  call 
themselves  spiritualists  and  occultists.  It  certainly  had 
an  effect  upon  them  at  the  time,  and  I  advised  them 
earnestly  to  drop  it.  They  disregarded  my  advice,  and 
the  result  was  that  Mr.  Cresswell  fell  into  an  extraordinary 
condition  of  body.  He  fell  into  a  trance,  became  as  if 
he  were  dead,  and  remained  so  for  some  hours  on  a  cer- 
tain night.  I  was  called  in  to  him,  and  actually  thought 
that  he  was  dead.  But  he  revived.  Now,  I  believe  that 
though  he  seemed  to  recover,  and  did  recover  in  body, 
he  never  recovered  from  that  insensibility  in  mind.  I 
believe  he  went  into  that  sleep  sane  and  came  out  of  it 
mad,  and  that  he  remains  mad  to  this  moment.  Cer- 
tainly, ever  since  then  he  has  been  an  altered  man,  the 
man  you  know,  not  at  all  the  man  he  used  to  be.  Since 
that  night  he,  who  used  to  be  almost  unconscious  of  the 
wonder  of  his  own  will,  has  become  intensely  self-con- 
scious, and  engrossed  with  it,  and  has  wished  to  make  it 
obey  him  and  perform  miracles.  And  what  is  the  special 
miracle  to  which  he  is  devoting  himself  at  this  moment, 
as  you  have  observed?  Just  this:  the  ruin  of  the  thing 
he  originally  saved.  It  is  like  this,"  he  said,  noting  that 
Cuckoo  was  becoming  puzzled  and  confused,  "  Cresswell, 
by  his  influence,  made  Julian  loathe  sin.  Coming  out  of 
this  trance,  as  I  believe,  a  madman,  he  seeks  to  make  his 
will  do  something  extraordinary.  What  shall  he  make 
it  do?  His  eyes  fall  on  Julian,  who  is  always  with  him, 
as  you  know.  And  he  resolves  to  make  Julian  love  what 
he  has  taught  him  to  loathe — sin,  vice,  degradation  of 
every  kind.  So  he  sets  to  work  with  all  the  cunning  of  a 
diseased  mind,  and  hour  by  hour,  day  by  day,  he  works 


THE    DOCTOR   DRIVES    OUT  417 

for  this  horrible  end.  At  first  he  is  quiet  and  careful. 
But  at  last  he  becomes  almost  intoxicated  as  he  sees  his 
own  success.  And  he  allows  himself  to  be  led  into  out- 
breaks of  triumph.  One  of  those  outbreaks  you  yourself 
seem  to  have  witnessed.  I  have  witnessed  another — on 
the  night  I  dined  alone  with  Cresswell,  when  he  killed  the 
dog,  Rip,  and  threw  him  out  into  the  snow.  Cresswell  is 
intoxicated  with  the  mental  intoxication  of  mania,  at  the 
degradation  into  which  his  will  has  forced  Julian,  who 
had  learnt  to  love  him,  to  think  that  everything  he  did 
must  be  right.  And  this  intoxication  is  leading  him  to 
excesses.  It  is  my  firm  belief  that  he  intends  to  drag 
Julian  down  into  intolerable  abysses  of  sin,  to  plunge 
him  into  utter  ruin,  to  bring  him  perhaps  to  prison,  and 
to  death." 

Cuckoo  was  listening  now  with  a  white  face — even  her 
lips  looked  almost  grey.  The  sunshine  still  lay  over  the 
winter  world.  The  horses  trotted.  The  sables  were  warm 
about  her.  They  had  nearly  left  the  city  behind  them 
and  were  gaining  the  heights,  on  which  the  air  was  keener 
and  more  life-giving,  and  from  which  the  outlook  was 
larger  and  more  inspiring.  But  the  girl's  gaiety  and 
almost  wild  sense  of  vivacity  and  protectedness  had 
vanished.  For  the  doctor's  face  and  voice  had  become 
grave,  and  his  words  were  weighty  with  a  conviction, 
which,  added  to  her  own  knowledge  of  Julian  and  Valen- 
tine, made  her  fears  unutterable.  As  the  doctor  paused 
she  opened  her  lips  as  if  to  speak,  but  she  said  nothing. 
He  could  not  but  perceive  the  cloud  that  had  settled  on 
her,  and  his  manner  quickly  changed.  A  brightness,  a 
hopefulness,  illumined  his  face,  and  he  said  quickly: 

"This  tragedy  is  what  you  and  I,  but  you  especially, 
must  prevent." 

Then  Cuckoo  spoke  at  last: 

"  How  ever?  "  she  said. 

"Remember  this,"  he  answered.  "If  Cresswell  is 
mad  we  must  pity  him,  not  condemn  him.  But  we  must, 
above  all,  fight  him.  Could  I  prove  his  madness  the  danger 
would  be  averted.  Possibly  time  will  give  me  the  means 
of  proving  it.  I  have  watched  him.  I  shall  continue 
to    watch    him.     But    as    yet,    although    I    see    enough 


4i8  FLAMES 

to  convince  me  of  his  insanity,  I  don't  see  enough  to 
convince  the  world,  or,  above  all,  to  convince  Julian. 
Therefore  never  give  Julian  the  slightest  hint  of  what  I 
have  told  you  of  to-day.  His  adoration  of  Valentine  is 
such  that  even  a  hint  might  easily  lead  him  to  regard 
both  you  and  me  as  his  enemies.  Keep  your  own  coun- 
sel and  mine,  but  act  with  me  on  the  silent  assumption 
that  Cresswell  being  a  madman,  we  are  justified  in  fight- 
ing him  to  the  bitter  end,  you  and  I,  with  all  our  forces. " 

"I  see,"  Cuckoo  said,  a  burning  excitement  begin- 
ning to  wake  in  her. 

"Justified  in  fighting  him,  but  not  in  hating  him." 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  with  a  much  more  doubtful  accent. 

"Scarcely  any  human  being,  if  indeed  any,  is  com- 
pletely hateful.  How  then  can  a  human  being,  whose 
mind  is  ill  and  out  of  control,  be  hateful?"  said  the 
doctor,  gently. 

She  felt  herself  rebuked,  and  a  quick  thought  of  her- 
self, of  what  she  was,  rebuked  her  too. 

"I'll  try  not,"  she  murmured,  but  with  no  inward 
conviction  of  success. 

They  were  on  the  heath  now,  and  the  smoke  of  Lon- 
don hung  in  the  wintry  air  beyond  and  below  them.  The 
sun  was  already  beginning  to  wear  the  aspect  of  a  trav- 
eller on  the  point  of  departure  for  a  journey.  His  once 
golden  face  was  sinister  with  that  blood-red  hue  which  it 
so  often  assumes  on  winter  afternoons,  and  which  seems 
to  set  it  in  a  place  more  than  usually  remote,  more  than 
usually  distant  from  our  world,  and  in  a  clime  that  is  sad 
and  strange.  Winds  danced  over  the  heath  like  young 
witches.  The  horses,  whipped  by  the  more  intense  cold, 
pulled  hard  against  the  bit,  and  made  the  coachman's 
arms  ache.  The  doctor  looked  away  for  a  moment  at 
the  vapours  that  began  to  clothe  the  afternoon  in  the 
hollows  and  depressions  of  the  landscape,  and  at  the 
sun,  whose  gathering  change  of  aspect  smote  on  his 
imagination  as  something  akin  to  the  change  that  falls 
over  the  faces  of  men  towards  that  hour  when  the  sun 
of  their  glory  makes  ready  for  its  setting.  Still  keeping 
his  glance  on  that  sad  red  sun  in  its  nest  of  radiating 
vapours,  he  said,  in  a  withdrawn  voice: 


THE    DOCTOR   DRIVES   OUT  419 

•*We  must  hate  nothing  except  the  hatefulness  of 
sin  in  ourselves  and  in  others." 

Cuckoo  listened  as  to  the  voice  of  some  one  on  a 
throne,  and  tears  that  she  could  not  fully  understand 
rose  in  her  eyes. 

But  now  the  doctor  turned  from  the  sun  to  the  lady 
of  the  feathers,  and  there  was  a  bright  light  in  his  quiet 
eyes. 

"  You  and  I  must  fight  with  all  our  forces,"  he  said. 
"Have  you  ever  thought  about  this  thing  will  which 
Cresswell  worships  insanely?  Have  you  ever  felt  it  in 
you,  Miss  Bright?  " 

"I  don't  know  as  I  have,"  Cuckoo  said,  secretly 
wondering  if  it  were  that  strange  and  fleeting  power 
which  had  come  to  her  of  late,  which  had  made  her  for  a 
moment  fearless  of  Valentine  as  she  defied  him  in  the 
loneliness  of  her  room,  which  had  stirred  her  even  to  a 
faith  in  herself  when  she  spoke  with  the  doctor  under 
the  stars  upon  her  doorstep. 

"I  think  you  have.  I  think  you  will.  It  must  be 
there,  for  Julian  feels  it  in  you.  He  —  he  calls  it  a 
flame." 

"Eh?     Aflame?" 

"  Yes.  He  sees  it  in  your  eyes,  and  it  holds  him  near 
you." 

So  the  doctor  spoke,  partly  out  of  his  conviction, 
partly  because  he  had  definitely  resolved  to  put  away 
from  him  all  the  things  that  fought  against  his  reason 
and  that  his  imagination  perhaps  loved  too  much.  Such 
things,  he  thought,  floated  like  clouds  across  the  clear- 
ness of  his  vision,  and  drowned  the  light  of  his  power  to 
do  good.  So  his  fancies  that  had  fastened  on  the  mystery 
of  the  dead  Marr  and  the  living  Valentine,  connecting 
them  together,  and  weaving  a  veil  of  magic  about  their 
strange  connection,  were  banished.  He  would  not  hold 
more  commerce  with  them,  nor  would  he  accept  the 
fancies  of  others  as  realities.  Thus,  in  his  mind,  Julian's 
legend  of  the  flame  in  this  girl's  eyes,  despite  the  doctor's 
own  vision  of  flames,  became  merely  a  story  of  the  truth 
of  human  will  and  an  acknowledgment  of  its  power. 

"  Is  that  why  he  looks  at  me  so?  "  Cuckoo  asked,  in 


420  FLAMES 

a  manner  unusually  meditative.  "But  then  he,  Valen- 
tine, did  the  same!  Why,  could  that  be  what  scared  him 
that  night  —  what  he  struck  at?  " 

"  He  too  may  feel  that  you  have  a  power  for  good, 
to  fight  against  his  power  for  evil.  Yes,  he  does  feel  it. 
Make  him  feel  it  more.  Rely  on  yourself.  Trust  that 
there  's  something  great  within  you,  something  placed 
there  for  you  to  use.  Never  mind  what  your  life  has 
been.  Never  mind  your  own  weakness.  You  are  the 
home,  the  temple,  of  this  power  of  will.  Julian  feels  it, 
and  it  draws  him  to  you,  but  it  is  as  nothing  yet  com- 
pared with  the  power  of  Cresswell.  You  have  to  make  it 
more  powerful,  so  that  you  may  win  Julian  back  from 
this  danger." 

"Eh?     How?" 

"Rest  on  it;  trust  in  it;  teach  it  to  act.  Show 
Julian  more  and  more  that  you  have  it.  Can't  you  think 
of  a  way  of  showing  that  you  have  this  power?  " 

"  Not  I.      No,"  Cuckoo  murmured. 

The  doctor  lowered  his  voice  still  more.  Quite  at  a 
venture  he  drew  a  bow,  and  with  his  first  arrow  smote 
the  lady  of  the  feathers  to  the  heart. 

"  Has  Julian  ever  asked  you  to  do  anything?"  he 
said. 

Suddenly  Cuckoo's  face  was  scarlet. 

'*  Why  ?     How  d'  you  know?  "  she  stammered. 

"Anything  for  him  that  was  not  evil?"  the  doctor 
pursued,  following  out  an  abstract  theory,  not  as  Cuckoo 
fancied,  dealing  with  known  facts.  "I  know  nothing. 
I  only  ask  you  to  try  and  remember,  to  search  your 
mind." 

There  was  no  need  for  the  lady  of  the  feathers  to  do 
that. 

"Yes,  he  did  once,"  she  said,  looking  still  confused 
and  furtive. 

"Was  it  difficult?" 

She  hesitated. 

"  I  s'pose  so,"  she  answered  at  last. 

"  Did  you  doit  ?" 

"No." 


THE    DOCTOR    DRIVES   OUT  421 

The  doctor  had  noticed  that  his  questions  gave  pain. 

"  I  do  n't  want  to  know  what  it  was  and  I  don't  ask," 
he  said.  "I  have  neither  the  right  to,  nor  the  desire 
to.  But  can't  you  do  it,  and  show  Julian  that  you  have 
done  it?  If  you  do  I  think  he  will  see  that  flame,  which 
he  fears  and  which  fascinates  him,  burn  more  clearly, 
more  steadily,  in  your  eyes." 

"  I  '11  see,"  Cuckoo  said  with  a  kind  of  gulp. 

'*  Do  more  than  this.  This  is  only  a  part,  one  weapon 
in  the  fight.  Cresswell  is  always  near  Julian;  you  must  be 
near  him.  Cresswell  pursues  Julian;  you  must  pursue 
him,  use  your  woman's  wit,  use  all  your  experience  of 
men;  use  your  heart.  Wake  up  and  throw  yourself  into 
this  battle,  and  make  yourself  worthy  of  fighting.  Only 
you  can  tell  how.  But  this  is  a  fact.  Our  wills,  our 
powers  of  doing  things,  are  made  strong,  or  made  weak 
by  our  own  lives.  Each  time  we  do  a  degradingly  low, 
beastly  thing" — he  chose  the  words  most  easily  compre- 
hended by  such  a  woman  as  she  was — "we  weaken  our 
will,  and  make  it  less  able  to  do  anything  good  for 
another.  If  you  commit  loveless  actions  from  to-day — 
though  Julian  has  nothing  to  do  with  them — with  each 
loveless  action  you  will  lose  a  point  in  the  battle  against 
the  madness  of  Cresswell.  And  you  must  lose  no  points. 
Remember  you  are  fighting  a  madman,  as  I  believe,  for 
the  safety  of  the  man  you  love.  If  I  could  tell  you 
what — " 

The  doctor  pulled  himself  up  short. 

'*  No,"  he  said,  "  no  need  to  tell  you  more  than  that, 
within  these  last  few  days  I  have  found  that  all  you  said 
about  Cresswell's  present  diablerie'" — he  shook  his  head 
impatiently  at  the  language  he  was  using  to  the  lady  of 
the  feathers — "Cresswell's  present  impulse  for  evil  is 
less  horribly  true  than  the  truth.  I  shall  watch  him,  day 
by  day,  from  now.  And  if  I  can  act,  I  shall  do  so.  If 
his  insanity  is  too  sharp  for  me,  as  it  may  well  be,  I  shall 
be  checkmated  in  any  effort  to  forcibly  keep  him  from 
doing  harm.  In  that  case  I  can  only  trust  to  you,  and 
hope  that  some  chance  circumstance  may  lead  to  the 
opening  of  Julian's  eyes.     But  they  are  closed — closed 


422  FLAMES 

fast.  In  any  case  you  will  help  me  and  I  will  help  you. 
You  shall  have  opportunities  of  meeting  Julian  often.  I 
will  arrange  that.     And  Cresswell — " 

He  paused  as  if  in  deep  thought. 

"How  to  do  it,"  he  murmured,  almost  to  himself. 
*'  How  to  bring  this  battle  to  the  issue!  " 

Then  he  turned  his  eyes  on  Cuckoo. 

She  was  sitting  bolt  upright  in  the  carriage.  Her 
cheeks  were  flushed.  Her  hollow  eyes  were  sparkling. 
She  had  drawn  her  hands  out  from  under  the  rug  and 
clasped  them  together  in  her  lap. 

*'  Oh,  I  '11  do  anything  I  can,"  she  said,  "  anything. 
And — and  I  can  do  that  one  thing!  " 

**Yes,"said  the  doctor.     "Which?" 

"The  thing  that  he  asked  me  once,  and  what  I  said 
no  to,"  she  answered,  but  in  such  a  low  murmur  that  the 
doctor  scarcely  caught  the  words. 

He  leaned  forward  in  the  carriage. 

"  Home  now,  Grant,"  he  said  to  the  coachman.  "  Or 
— no — drive  first  to  400  Marylebone  Road." 

The  doctor  turned  again  towards  Cuckoo.  She  was 
looking  away  from  him,  so  much  that  he  was  obliged  to 
believe  that  she  wished  to  conceal  her  face,  which  was 
towards  the  sunset. 

The  sky  over  London  glowed  with  a  dull  red  like  a 
furnace.  It  deepened,  while  they  looked,  passing  rapidly 
through  the  biting  cold  of  the  late  winter  afternoon. 

The  red  cloud  near  the  fainting  sun  broke  and  parted. 

Spears  of  gold  were  thrust  forth. 

"Flames,"  the  doctor  whispered  to  himself. 
"Flames!     The  will,  the  soul  of  God  in  nature." 


PART  V  —  FLAMES 


CHAPTER  I 

VALENTINE   INVITES   HIS  GUESTS 

Valentine  and  Julian  sat  together  in  the  tentroom  at 
night,  as  they  sat  together  many  months  ago,  when 
Julian  confessed  his  secret  and  Valentine  expressed  his 
strange  desire  to  have  a  different  soul.  Now  it  was  deep 
winter.  The  year  was  old.  In  three  days  it  must  die. 
It  lay  in  the  snow,  like  some  abandoned  beggar  waiting 
for  the  inevitable  end.  Some,  who  were  happy,  would 
fain  have  succoured  it  and  kept  it  with  them.  Others, 
who  were  sad,  said:  "Let  it  go — this  beggar.  Already 
it  has  taken  too  many  alms  from  us."  But  neither  the 
happy  nor  the  sad  could  affect  its  fate.  So  it  lay  in  the 
snow  and  in  the  wind,  upon  its  deathbed. 

The  tentroom  had  not  been  altered.  Still  the  green 
draperies,  veiled  walls,  windows  and  door,  meeting  in  a 
point  at  the  ceiling.  The  fire  danced  and  shone.  The 
electric  moons  gleamed  with  a  twilight  softness.  Only 
Rip  was  gone  from  the  broad  and  cushioned  divan  upon 
which  he  had  loved  to  lie,  half  sleeping,  half  awake, 
while  his  master  talked  and  Julian  listened  or  replied. 
The  room  was  the  same,  and  this  very  fact  emphasized 
the  transformation  of  the  two  men  who  sat  in  it.  They 
leaned  in  their  low  chairs  on  each  side  of  the  fire,  thinly 
veiled  from  time  to  time  in  cigarette-smoke.  No  sound 
of  London  reached  them  in  this  small  room.  Even  the 
voice  of  the  winter  wind  whispered  and  sang  in  vain. 
Stifled  by  the  thick  draperies,  it  failed  in  its  effort  to 
gain  their  attention,  and  sighed  among  the  chimney-tops 
the  chagrin  of  its  soul.     The  face  of  Julian  was  drawn 

423 


434  FLAMES 

and  heavy.  His  eyes  were  downcast.  His  arms  hung 
over  the  cushioned  elbows  of  his  chair,  in  which  he  sat 
very  low,  in  the  shrivelled  posture  of  one  desperately 
fatigued.  From  time  to  time  he  opened  his  lips  in  a  sort 
of  dull  gape,  then  shut  his  teeth  tightly  as  if  he  ground 
them  together.  The  drooping  lids  of  his  eyes  were  cov- 
ered with  little  lines,  and  there  were  deeper  lines  at  the 
corners  of  his  mouth.  The  colour  of  his  face  was  the 
colour  of  the  misty  cloud  that  haunts  the  steps  of  even- 
ing on  an  autumn  day — grey,  as  if  it  clothed  processes  of 
decay  and  desolation.  Years  seemed  to  crouch  upon 
him  like  lean  dogs  upon  a  doorstep.  Within  a  few  months 
he  had  stepped  from  boyhood  to  the  creaking  threshold 
of  premature  age. 

The  change  in  Valentine  was  far  less  marked  to  a 
careless  eye.  There  was  still  a  peculiar  cleanness  in  his 
large  blue  eyes,  a  white  delicacy  in  his  features.  The 
lips  of  his  mouth  were  red  and  soft,  not  dry,  as  were  the 
lips  of  Julian.  The  crisp  gold  of  his  hair  caught  the 
light,  and  his  lithe  figure  rested  in  his  chair  in  a  calm 
posture  of  pleasant  ease.  Yet  he,  too,  was  changed. 
Expression  of  a  new  nature  now  no  longer  lurked  fur- 
tively in  his  face,  but  boldly,  even  triumphantly,  asserted 
itself.  It  did  not  shrink  behind  a  soft  smile,  or  glide 
and  pass  in  a  fleeting  gaiety,  but  stared  upon  the  world 
with  something  of  the  hard  and  fixed  immobility  of  a 
mask.  Every  mask,  whatever  expression  be  painted 
upon  it,  wears  a  certain  aspect  of  shamelessness.  Val- 
entine's was  a  hard  and  shameless  face,  although  his 
features,  if  coarser  than  of  old,  were  still  noble,  and,  in 
line,  a  silent  legend  of  almost  priestly  intellectuality. 

He  was  looking  across  at  Julian,  who  held  idly  be- 
tween his  lax  fingers  a  letter  written  with  violet  ink  upon 
pink  paper,  which  had  a  little  bird  stamped  in  the  left- 
hand  corner. 

"  When  did  you  get  it?  "  he  said. 

"  Two  or  three  days  ago,  I  think.  I  can't  remem. 
ber.  I  can't  remember  anything  now, "  Julian  answered 
heavily. 

"And  you  have  had  two  since?  " 

"Yes.     And  to-day  she  called." 


VALENTINE   INVITES   HIS   GUESTS    425 

"  You  were  out?  " 

"Yes." 

"  She  shows  herself  very  exigent  all  of  a  sudden.  She 
is  afraid  of  losing  you.  I  told  you  long  ago  she  cher- 
ished absurd  ambitions  with  regard  to  you.  Do  you  intend 
to  answer  her  notes?" 

"Oh  yes,"  Julian  said.  "Cuckoo  has  always  been 
very  fond  of  me;  very  fond." 

He  glanced  at  the  absurdly  vulgar  little  bird  in  the 
corner  of  the  letter.  "And  that 's  something,"  he  added 
slowly. 

"  You  are  weighed  down  with  gratitude?  No  wonder. 
Are  you  grateful  to  others  who  have  always  cared  for 
you  in  a  different  way — unselfishly,  that  is?" 

"I  don't  seem  to  feel  very  much  about  anybody 
now,"  Julian  said.  "  I  do  such  a  lot.  The  more  you 
do,  the  less  you  feel.  Damnable  life!  All  cruelty.  I 
can't  feel  satisfied.  But  there  must  be  something; 
something  I  haven't  tried.  I  must  find  it,"  he  said, 
almost  fiercely,  and,  stirring  in  a  sudden  energy,  "I 
must  find  it — or — curse  you,  Val,  why  don't  you  find  it 
for  me? " 

Valentine  laughed. 

"  The  last  novelty  has  failed?  You  are  a  very  discon- 
tented sinner,  Julian.  And  yet  London  begins  to  think 
you  too  enterprising.  I  hear  that  Lady  Crichton  is  the 
last  person  to  shut  her  doors  against  you.  What  did  she 
hear  of  ?  " 

"  How  should  I  know?  " 

He  laughed  bitterly. 

"  She  ought  n't  to  be  particular.  She  used  to  receive 
Marr.     I  met  him  first  in  her  yellow  drawing-room." 

"London  had  not  discussed  him,  perhaps.  You  are 
rapidly  becoming  a  legend  and  a  warning.  That  is  fame. 
To  be  the  accepted  warning  for  others." 

"  Or  infamy;  which  is  much  the  same  thing." 

"But  you  are  only  at  the  first  posting-station  of  your 
journey,"  Valentine  continued,  looking  at  him  with  a 
smile.  "  If  you  are  dissatisfied,  it  is  because  you  have 
not  tasted  yet  half  that  strength  of  the  spring  we  once 
talked   of.      You   have   not  completely  thrown   off   the 


426  FLAMES 

foolish  yoke  of  public  opinion.  The  chains  still  jangle 
about  you.     Cast  them  away  and  you  will  yet  be  happy. " 

"  Shall  I?     Shall  I,  Valentine?  " 

The  exhausted,  worn,  and  weary  figure  leaned 
abruptly  forward  in  its  chair.  Julian's  tired  eyes  glit- 
tered greedily. 

*'  To  be  happy,  I  'd  commit  any  crime,"  he  said. 

"Crime  is  merely  opinion,"  Valentine  answered. 
"  Everything  is  opinion.  You  will  commit  crimes  prob- 
ably.    Most  brave  men  do." 

*'  But  shall  I  be  happy?  " 

"You  are  greedy,  Julian,  greedy  of  everything, 
knowledge  of  life,  lust,  joy.  You  are  never  satisfied. 
That's  because  you  and  I  fasted  for  so  long;  and  the 
greedy  man  is  never  quite  happy  while  he  is  eating,  for 
he  is  alway  anticipating  the  next  course.  And,  let 
philosophers  say  what  they  will,  happiness  does  not  lie 
in  anticipation.  Go  on  eating.  Pass  on  from  course  to 
course.  At  last  there  will  come  a  time,  a  beautiful  time, 
when  your  appetite  will  be  satisfied  and  you  will  rest  con- 
tented. But,  remember,  not  till  you  have  journeyed 
through  the  whole  menu,  played  with  your  dessert  and 
even  drunk  your  black  coffee.  Go  on,  only  go  on.  Men 
and  women  are  unhappy.  They  think  it  is  because 
they  have  done  too  much.  They  reproach  themselves 
for  a  thousand  things  that  they  have  done.  Fools! 
They  are  unhappy  because  they  have  not  done  enough. 
The  text  which  will  haunt  me  on  my  deathbed  will  be: 
*  I  have  left  undone  those  things  which  I  ought  to  have 
done.'  Yes,  during  my  long  cursed  years  of  inaction, 
when  I  was  called  the  Saint  of  Victoria  Street.  Ah! 
Julian,  you  and  I  slept;  we  are  awake  now.  You  and  I 
were  dead;  we  are  now  alive.  But  we  are  only  at  the 
beginning  of  our  lives.  We  have  those  years,  those 
white  and  empty  years,  to  drown  in  the  waters  of  Lethe. 
They  are  like  monstrous  children  that  should  have  been 
strangled  almost  ere  they  were  born,  white,  vacant 
children.  And  now,  day  by  day,  we  are  pressing  them 
down  in  the  waters  with  our  hands.  At  last  they  will 
sink.  The  waves  will  flow  over  their  haggard  faces. 
The  waves  will  sweep  them  away.     Then  we  shall  be 


VALENTINE    INVITES   HIS   GUESTS     427 

happy.  We  shall  redeem  those  years  on  which  the  locust 
fed,  and  we  shall  be  happy. " 

"Yes,  by  God,  we  shall  be  happy,  we  will  —  we  will 
be  happy.  Only  teach  me  to  be  happy,  Valentine,  any- 
where, anyhow." 

"  Not  with  the  lady  of  the  feathers.  She  will  not 
make  you  happy." 

"  Cuckoo?  No!  For  she  's  terribly  unhappy  herself. 
Poor  old  Cuckoo.     I  wonder  what  she  's  doing  now." 

"  Searching  in  the  snow  for  her  fate,"  Valentine  said, 
with  a  sneer. 

*  !|c  «  4c  * 

It  was  not  so.  Cuckoo  was  sitting  alone  in  the  little 
room  of  the  Marylebone  Road  looking  a  new  spectre 
in  the  face,  the  spectre  of  hunger,  only  shadowy  as 
yet,  scarcely  defined,  scarcely  visible.  And  the  lady  of 
the  feathers  wondered,  as  she  gazed,  if  she  and  the 
spectre  must  become  better  acquainted,  clasp  hands, 
kiss  lips,  be  day-fellows  and  night-fellows. 

"I  am  going  to  write  to  Cuckoo,"  Julian  said  a  day 
later.      "What  shall  I  say?" 

Valentine  hesitated. 

"What  have  you  thought  of  saying?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  First  one  thing,  then  another. 
Good-bye  among  the  number.  That 's  what  you  wish 
me  to  say,  Val,  isn't  it?" 

He  spoke  in  a  listless  voice,  monotonous  in  inflection 
and  lifeless  in  timbre.  The  dominion  of  Valentine  over 
him  since  the  supper  at  the  Savoy  had  increased,  con- 
solidating itself  into  an  undoubted  tyranny,  which  Julian 
accepted,  carelessly,  thoughtlessly,  a  prey  to  the  in- 
ternal degradation  of  his  mind.  Once  he  had  only  been 
nobly  susceptible,  a  fine  power.  Now  he  was  drearily 
weak,  an  ungracious  disability.  But  with  his  weakness 
came,  as  is  usual,  a  certain  lassitude  which  even  re- 
sembled despair,  an  indifference  peculiar  to  the  slave, 
how  opposed  to  the  indifference  peculiar  to  the  autocrat 
Valentine  recognized  in  the  voice  the  badge  of  serfdom^ 
even  more  than  in  the  question,  and  he  smiled  with  a  cold 
triumph.     He  had  intended  telling  Julian  now,  once  for 


428  FLAMES 

all,  to  break  with  the  lady  of  the  feathers,  of  whom 
even  yet  he  stood  in  vague  fear.  But  the  question,  the 
voice  of  Julian,  gave  him  pause,  slid  into  his  soul  a  new 
and  bizarre  desire,  child  of  the  strange  intoxication  of 
power  which  was  beginning  to  grip  him,  and  which  the 
doctor  had  remarked.  If  Julian  broke  with  Cuckoo, 
repulsed  her  forever  into  the  long  street  that  was  her 
pent  and  degraded  world,  would  not  the  sharp  salt  of 
Valentine's  triumph  be  taken  from  him?  Would  not 
the  wheels  of  his  Juggernaut  car  fail  to  do  their  office 
in  his  sight — there  was  the  point!  —  upon  a  precious  vic- 
tim? The  lady  of  the  feathers  thus  deliberately  aban- 
doned by  Julian  would  suffer  perhaps  almost  to  the  limit 
of  her  capability  of  pain,  but  Valentine  would  have  lost 
sight  of  her  in  the  dark,  and  though  he  would  have  con- 
quered that  spectral  opposition  which  she  had  whimsi- 
cally offered  to  him — he  laughed  to  himself  now,  thinking 
of  his  fear  of  it  —  he  would  not  see  that  greatest  vision, 
the  flight  of  his  enemy. 

These  thoughts  flashed  through  his  mind,  moving 
him  to  an  answer  that  astonished  Julian, 

"Good-bye!  "  he  said.      "Why  should  I  wish  that?" 

"You  said  the  other  day  at  the  Savoy  that  she  hated 
you ;  that  you  and  she  must  have  a  battle  unless  I  chose 
between  you." 

"  I  was  laughing." 

The  lifelessness  left  Julian's  voice  as  he  exclaimed: 

"Valentine!     But  you  were  —  " 

"  Sober,  and  you  were  not.     Can  you  deny  it?  " 

Julian  was  silent. 

"I  so  little  meant  that  nonsense,"  Valentine  con- 
tinued, "  that  I  have  conceived  a  plan.  To-morrow  is 
the  last  night  of  the  old  year.  The  doctor  asked  us  to 
spend  it  with  him.  We  refused.  Providence  directed 
that  refusal,  for  now  we  are  at  liberty  to  celebrate  the 
proper  occasion  for  burying  hatchets  by  burying  our 
particular  hatchet.  The  lady  of  the  feathers,  your 
friend,  my  enemy,  shall  see  the  new  year  in  here,  in  this 
tentroom,  where  long  ago  we  —  you  and  I  —  with  how 
ill  success,  sought  to  exchange  our  souls." 

Julian  looked  utterly  astonished  at  this  proposition. 


VALENTINE    INVITES    HIS   GUESTS     429 

"Cuckoo  would  n't  come  here,"  he  began, 

"So  you  said  once  before.  But  she  came  then,  and 
she  will  come  now." 

"  And  then  the  doctor!  If  he  gets  to  hear  of  it!  We 
said  we  were  dining  out." 

Valentine's  hard  smile  grew  yet  harder,  and  his  eyes 
sparkled  eagerly. 

"I'll  arrange  that,"  he  said.  "The  doctor  shall 
come  here  too." 

It  seemed  indeed  as  if  he  meant  that  his  triumph 
should  culminate  on  this  final  night  of  the  year,  his  year. 
He  laughed  Julian's  astonishment  at  this  vagary  aside, 
sat  down  and  wrote  the  two  notes  of  invitation,  and  then 
went  out  with  Julian,  saying: 

"  Julian,  come  out  with  me.  You  remember  what  I 
said  about  the  greedy  man?  Come;  Fate  shall  present 
you  with  another  course,  one  more  step  towards  your 
cafe  noir   and — happiness.      Voilaf 

Valentine  was  right  in  his  supposition  that  both  the 
lady  of  the  feathers  and  the  doctor  would  accept  his 
invitation,  but  he  did  not  understand  the  precise  motive 
which  prompted  their  acceptance.  Nor  did  he  much 
care  to  understand  it.  Cuckoo,  Doctor  Levillier!  After 
all,  what  were  they  to  him  now?  Spectators  of  his 
triumph.  Interesting,  therefore,  to  a  certain  extent,  as 
an  unpaying  audience  may  be  interesting  to  an  actor. 
Interesting,  inasmuch  as  they  could  contribute  to  swell 
the  bladder  of  his  vanity,  and  follow  in  procession  be- 
hind his  chariot  wheels.  But  he  no  longer  cared  to 
divine  the  shades  of  their  emotions,  or  to  busy  himself 
in  fathoming  their  exact  mental  attitudes  in  relation  to 
himself.  So  he  thought,  touched  perhaps  with  a  certain 
delirium,  though  not  with  the  delirium  of  insanity 
attributed  to  him  by  Doctor  Levillier. 

The  doctor  had  intended  celebrating  the  last  night  of 
the  year  in  Harley  Street  with  Cuckoo  and  the  two 
young  men.  The  refusal  of  the  latter  put  an  end  to  the 
opening  of  his  plan  of  campaign  in  this  strange  battle, 
and  he  was  greatly  astonished  when  he  received  Valen- 
tine's invitation.  Still,  he  had  no  hesitation  in  accept- 
ing it. 


430  FLAMES 

"So,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  read  the  note,  "we 
join  issue  within  the  very  wall  of  the  enemy.  Poor,  de- 
luded, twisted  Valentine!  that  I  should  have  to  call  him, 
to  think  of  him  as  an  enemy!  We  begin  the  fight  within 
the  shadow  of  our  opponent's  tent." 

Literally  that  was  the  fact. 

Cuckoo's  thoughts  were  less  definite,  more  tinged 
with  passion,  less  shaped  by  the  hands  of  intellect. 
They  were  as  clouds,  looming  large,  yet  misty,  hanging 
loose  in  torn  fragments  now,  and  now  merging  into  in- 
distinguishable fog  that  yet  seemed  pregnant  with  possi- 
bilities. Poor  thoughts,  vague  thoughts;  yet  they 
pressed  upon  her  brain  until  her  tired  head  ached.  And 
they  stole  down  to  her  heart,  and  that  ached  too,  and 
hoped  and  then  despaired  —  then  hoped  again. 


CHAPTER  II 
caf6  noir 

Snow  fell,  melodramatically,  on  the  year's  death-night. 
During  the  day  Valentine  occupied  himself  oddly  in  dec- 
orating his  flat  for  the  evening.  But  although  he  thus 
seemed  to  fall  in  with  the  consecrated  humours  of  the 
season  his  decorations  would  scarcely  have  commanded 
the  approval  of  those  good  English  folk  who  think  that 
no  plant  is  genial  unless  it  is  prickly,  and  that  prickly 
things  represent  appropriately  to  the  eye  the  inward 
peace  and  good  will  that  grows,  like  a  cactus,  perhaps 
within  the  heart.  He  did  not  put  holly  rigidly  above  his 
doors.  No  mistletoe  drooped  from  the  apex  of  the 
tentroom.  Instead,  he  filled  his  flat  with  flowers, 
brought  from  English  conservatories  or  from  abroad. 
Crowds  of  strange  and  spotted  orchids  stood  together  in 
the  drawing-room,  staring  upon  the  hurly-burly  of  fur- 
niture and  ornaments.  In  the  corners  of  the  room  were 
immense  red  flowers,  such  as  hang  among  the  crawling 
green  jungles  of  the  West  Indies.  They  gleamed,  like 
flames,  amid  a  shower  of  cunningly  arranged  green 
leaves,  and  palms  sheltered  them  from  the  electric  rays 
of  the  ceiling.  The  tentroom  was  a  maze  of  tulips,  in 
vases,  in  pots,  in  china  bowls  that  hung  by  thin  chains 
from  the  sloping  green  roof.  Few  of  these  tulips  were 
whole  coloured.  They  were  slashed,  and  striped,  and 
spotted  with  violent  hues.  Some  were  of  the  most 
vivid  scarlet  streaked  with  black.  Others  were  orange- 
coloured  with  livid  pink  spots,  circus-pink,  such  as  you 
see  round  the  eyes  of  horses  bred  specially  for  the  ring. 
There  were  white  tulips,  stained  as  if  with  blood,  pale 
pink  tulips  tipped  with  deepest  brown,  rose-coloured 
tulips  barred  with  wounds  whose  edges  were  saffron- 
hued,  tulips  of  a  warm  wallflower  tint  dashed  with  the 

431 


432  FLAMES 

stormy  yellow  of  an  evening  sky.  And  hidden  among 
those  scentless  flowers,  in  secret  places  cunningly  con- 
trived, were  great  groups  of  hyacinths,  which  poured 
forth  their  thick  and  decadent  scent,  breathing  heavily 
their  hearts  into  the  small  atmosphere  of  the  room,  and 
giving  a  strange  and  unnatural  soul  to  the  tulips  who 
had  spent  all  their  efforts  in  the  attainment  of  form  and 
daring  combinations  of  colour.  As  if  relapsing  into 
sweet  simplicity,  after  the  vagaries  of  a  wayward  nature 
had  run  their  course,  Valentine  had  filled  his  hall  and 
dining-room  with  violets,  purple  and  white,  and  a  bell 
of  violets  hung  from  the  ceiling  over  the  chair  which  the 
lady  of  the  feathers  was  to  occupy  at  dinner.  These 
were  white  only,  white  and  virginal,  flowers  for  some 
sweet  woman  dedicated  to  the  service  of  God,  or  to  the 
service  of  some  eternal  altar-flame  burning,  as  the  zeal  of 
nature  burns,  through  all  the  dawning  and  fading 
changes  of  the  world. 

Thus  Valentine  passed  his  day  among  flowers,  and 
only  when  the  last  twilight  of  the  year  fell  had  he  fixed 
the  last  blossom  in  its  place.  Then  he  rested,  as  after 
six  days  of  creation,  and  from  the  midst  of  his  flowers 
saw  the  snow  falling  delicately  upon  London.  Lights 
began  to  gleam  in  the  tall  houses  opposite  his  drawing- 
room  windows.  He  glanced  at  them,  and  they  brought 
him  thoughts  at  which  he  smiled.  Behind  those  squares 
of  light  he  imagined  peace  and  good  will  in  enormous 
white  waistcoats  and  expansive  shirt-fronts,  red-faced, 
perhaps  even  whiskered,  getting  ready  for  good  temper 
and  turkey,  journalistic  geniality  and  plum  pudding.  And 
holly  everywhere,  with  its  prickly  leaves  and  shining, 
phlegmatic  surfaces. 

Peace  and  good  will! 

He  glanced  at  his  orchids  and  at  the  red  West  Indian 
flowers,  and  he  thought  of  those  crawling  green  jungles 
from  which  they  should  have  come,  and  smiled  gently. 

Peace  and  good  will! 

He  went  to  dress, 

*  )|c  4c  *  « 

Meanwhile,  in  the  Marylebone  Road  the  lady  of  the 
feathers  achieved  her  toilet,   assisted  by  Jessie,     The 


CAFt   NOIR  433 

only  evening  dress  that  Cuckoo  possessed  had  been 
given  to  her  long  ago  by  a  young  man  in  the  millinery 
department  of  a  large  London  shop.  For  a  week  he  had 
adored  Cuckoo.  During  that  week  he  had  presented  her 
with  this  tremendous  gift.  She  went  into  her  bedroom 
now,  took  it  out  and  looked  at  it.  The  gown  rustled  a 
great  deal  whenever  it  was  moved;  this  had  been  the 
young  man's  idea.  He  considered  that  the  more  a  gift 
rustled,  the  more  aristocratic  it  was,  and,  being  well 
acquainted  with  all  the  different  noises  made  by  differ- 
ent fabrics,  he  had  selected  one  with  a  voice  as  of  many 
waters.  Cuckoo  heard  it  now  as  in  a  dream.  She  laid 
it  down  upon  the  bed  and  regarded  it  by  candle-light. 
The  young  man's  taste  in  sound  found  its  equivalent  in 
his  taste  in  colour.  The  hue  of  the  gown  was  also  very 
loud,  the  brightest  possible  green,  trimmed  with  thick 
yellow  imitation  lace.  Once  it  had  enchanted  Cuckoo, 
she  had  put  it  on  with  a  thrill  to  go  to  music-halls  with 
the  young  man.  But  now  she  gazed  upon  it  with  a  lack 
lustre  and  a  doubtful  eye.  The  flickering  flame  of  the 
candle  lit  it  up  in  patches,  and  those  patches  had  a 
lurid  aspect.  Remembering  that  Julian  had  liked  her 
best  in  black,  she  shrank  from  appearing  before  him  in 
anything  so  determined.  Yet  it  was  her  only  dress  for 
the  evening,  and  at  first  she  supposed  the  wearing  of  it 
to  be  inevitable.  She  put  it  on  and  went  in  front  of  the 
glass.  In  these  days  she  had  become  even  thinner  than 
of  old,  and  more  haggard.  The  gown  increased  her 
tenuity  and  pallor  to  the  eye,  and,  after  a  long  moment 
of  painful  consideration.  Cuckoo  resolved  to  abandon 
these  green  glories.  Once  her  mind  was  made  up,  she 
was  out  of  the  dress  in  an  instant;  time  was  short.  She 
hurriedly  extracted  her  black  gown  from  the  wardrobe, 
caught  hold  of  a  pair  of  scissors,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
had  ripped  the  imitation  lace  from  its  foundations  and 
was  transferring  it  with  trembling  fingers  to  Julian's  gift. 
Never  before  had  she  worked  at  any  task  with  such  grim 
determination,  or  with  such  deftness;  inspired  by  excep- 
tional circumstances,  she  might  for  twenty  minutes  have 
been  a  practised  dressmaker.  Certainly,  pins  were  called 
in  as  weapons  to  the  attack;  but  what  of  that?     Com- 


434  FLAMES 

promises  are  often  only  stuck  together  with  pins.  In 
any  case  Cuckoo  was  not  entirely  in  despair  with  the 
new  aspect  of  an  old  friend,  and  when  she  was  ready  was 
able  at  least  to  hope  that  things  might  have  been  worse. 

Putting  on  over  the  dress  a  black  jacket,  she  went  out 
into  the  passage  and  called  down  to  Mrs.  Brigg,  who,  as 
usual,  was  wandering  to  and  fro  in  her  kitchen,  like  an 
uneasy  shade  in  nethermost  Hades. 

"  Mrs.  Brigg!     Mrs.  Brigg,  I  say!  " 

"Well?" 

"Where  's  the  whistle?  " 

Mrs.  Brigg  came  to  the  bottom  of  the  kitchen  stairs. 

"  What  d'  yer  want  it  for?  " 

**A  cab,  of  course,"  cried  Cuckoo,  in  the  narrow 
voice  of  one  in  a  hurry. 

"A  cab!"  rejoined  Mrs.  Brigg,  ascending  the  dark 
stairs  all  the  time  she  was  speaking.  "  And  what  do 
you  want  with  cabs,  I  should  like  to  know?  Who  pays 
for  'em,  that 's  what  I  say;  who  's  to  do  it?  " 

Her  grey  head  hove  in  sight. 

"Where  are  you  going?     Piccadilly?  " 

"No;  get  the  whistle." 

"What — and  no  hat!  " 

She  was  evidently  impressed. 

"A  toff  is  it?"  she  ejaculated,  obviously  appeased. 
"Well!  so  long  as  I  get  the  rent  I — " 

With  a  white  glare  Cuckoo  seized  the  whistle  from  her 
claw,  and  in  a  moment  was  driving  away  through  the 
snow. 

Mrs.  Brigg  trotted  back  to  the  kitchen  decidedly  re- 
lieved. Cuckoo's  suddenly  altered  mode  of  life  had 
tried  her  greatly.  The  girl  had  taken  to  going  out  in 
the  day  and  staying  at  home  at  night.  Simultaneously 
with  this  changed  regime  her  funds  had  evidently  become 
low.  She  had  begun  to  live  less  well,  to  watch  more 
keenly  than  of  old  the  condition  in  which  her  commons 
went  down  to  the  kitchen  and  returned  from  it  on  the 
advent  of  the  next  meal.  By  various  little  symptoms 
the  landlady  knew  that  her  lodger  was  getting  hard  up. 
Yet  no  amount  of  badgering  and  argument  would  induce 
Cuckoo  to  say  why  she  sat  indoors  at  night.     She    ac- 


CAF6   NOIR  435 

knowledged  that  she  was  not  ill.  Mrs.  Brigg  had  been 
seriously  exercised.  But  now  her  old  heart  was  glad. 
Cuckoo  was,  perhaps,  mounting  into  higher  circles,  cir- 
cles in  which  hats  were  not  worn  during  the  evening. 
And  as  Mrs.  Brigg  entered  her  nethermost  hell  she  broke 
into  a  thin,  quavering  song: 

"  In  'er  'air  she  wore  a  white  cam-eelyer, 
Dark  blue  was  the  colour  of  'er  heye. " 

It  was  her  song  of  praise.  She  always  sang  it  on 
great  occasions. 

When  the  lady  of  the  feathers  reached  Victoria  Street 
she  found  the  little  party  already  assembled.  Valentine 
met  her  ceremoniously  in  the  violet-scented  hall  and 
helped  her  to  slide  out  of  her  jacket.  His  glance  upon 
the  imitation  lace  was  quick  and  gay,  but  Cuckoo  did 
not  see  it.  She  was  gazing  at  the  flowers,  and  when  she 
entered  the  drawing-room  and  found  herself  in  the 
midst  of  the  orchids,  the  West  Indian  flowers  and  the 
palms,  her  astonishment  knew  no  bounds. 

"  I  never!  "  she  murmured  under  her  breath. 

Then  she  forgot  the  flowers,  having  only  time  to  re- 
member to  be  shy.  Dinner  was  immediately  announced 
by  Wade,  whose  years  of  trained  discretion  could  not 
banish  a  faint  accent  of  surprise  from  his  voice.  He 
was,  in  fact,  bouleverse  by  this  celebration  of  the  death 
of  the  old  year.  Valentine  offered  Cuckoo  his  arm.  She 
took  it  awkwardly,  with  a  shooting  glance  of  question  at 
the  doctor,  who  seemed  her  only  spar  in  this  deep  social 
sea.  Valentine  placed  her  beneath  the  bell  of  violets, 
and  took  his  seat  beside  her.  Julian  was  on  her  other 
hand,  the  doctor  exactly  opposite.  Wade  presented  her 
with  hors-d' auvres.  Cuckoo  selected  a  sardine.  She 
understood  sardines,  having  met  them  at  the  Monico. 
Valentine  and  the  doctor  began  to  talk.  Julian  ate 
slowly,  and  Cuckoo  stole  a  glance  at  him.  His  aspect 
startled  her  so  much  that  she  with  difficulty  repressed  a 
murmur  of  astonishment.  He  had  the  appearance  of 
one  so  completely  exhausted  as  to  be  scarcely  alive. 
Most  people,  however  stupid,  however  bored,  have  some 
air,  when  in  society,  of  listening  even  when  they  do  not 
speak,  of  giving  some  sort  of  attention  to  those  about 


436  FLAMES 

them,  or  to  the  place  in  which  they  find  themselves. 
They  glance  this  way  and  that,  however  phlegmatically. 
They  bend  in  attention  or  lean  back  in  observation.  It 
is  seen  that  they  are  conscious  of  their  environment. 
But  Julian  was  engrossed  with  fatigue.  The  lids  drooped 
over  his  eyes.  His  face  wore  a  leaden  hue.  Even  his 
lips  were  colourless.  He  ate  slowly  and  mechanically 
till  his  plate  was  empty.  Then  he  laid  down  his  fork  and 
remained  motionless,  his  eyes  still  cast  down  towards 
the  tablecloth,  his  two  hands  laid  against  the  table  edge, 
while  the  fingers  were  extended  upon  the  cloth  on  either 
side  of  his  plate.  Cuckoo  looked  at  him  with  terror, 
wondering  if  he  were  ill.  Then,  glancing  up,  she  met 
the  eyes  of  the  doctor.  They  seemed  to  bid  her  take 
no  heed  of  Julian's  condition,  and  she  did  not  look  at 
him  again  just  then.  Trying  to  control  her  fears,  she 
listened  to  Valentine's  conversation  with  the  doctor. 

"  Doctors  are  sceptics  by  profession,"  she  heard 
him  say. 

"  I  believe  in  individualism  too  firmly  to  allow  that 
any  beliefs  or  unbeliefs  can  be  professional,  Cresswell. " 

"  Possibly  you  are  right, "  Valentine  answered  lightly. 
"  What  a  pity  it  is  that  there  is  no  profession  of  which 
all  the  members  at  least  believe  in  themselves." 

"  Ah;  would  you  enter  it?  " 

*'  I  scarcely  think  it  would  be  necessary." 

He  glanced  first  at  the  doctor,  then  at  Cuckoo  as  he 
spoke. 

"  I  am  thankful  to  say,"  he  added  in  his  clear,  cool 
voice,  "  that  I  have  no  longer  either  the  perpetual 
timidity  of  the  self-doubter  or  even  the  occasional 
anxiety  of  the  egoist. " 

"  You  have  passed  into  a  region  which  even  egoism 
cannot  enter." 

"  Possibly  —  the  average  egoism." 

"  The  average  egoism  of  the  end  of  the  century 
moves  in  a  very  rarefied  air." 

"  Its  feet  touch  ground  nevertheless." 

**  And  yours?  " 

Valentine  only  laughed,  as  if  he  considered  the  ques- 
tion merely  rhetorical  or  jocose. 


CAF6   NOIR  437 

"  But  we  are  getting  away  from  the  question,  which 
was  not  personal,"  he  said.  "I  contend  that  doctors, 
as  a  body,  are  bound  to  combat  these  modern  Athenians, 
who  are  inclined  to  attribute  everything  to  some  obscure 
action  of  the  mind.  For,  if  their  beliefs  are  founded  on 
rock,  and  if  they  can  themselves  sufficiently,  by  asceti- 
cism, or  by  following  any  other  fixed  course  of  life  which 
they  may  select  as  the  right  one,  train  their  minds  to  do 
that  which  they  believe  can  be  done,  the  profession  of 
doctors  may  in  time  be  abolished.  Mind  will  be  the 
universal  medicine;  will,  not  simply  the  cure,  but  the 
preventive,  of  disease." 

"  And  of  death?  "  the  doctor  asked  quietly.  "Will 
man  be  able  to  think  himself  into  an  eternity  on  earth?  " 

Valentine  looked  at  him  very  strangely. 

"  You  ask  that  question  seriously?  "  he  said. 

"  I  ask  seriously  whether  you  think  so." 

It  was  evident  that  the  doctor  meant  to  make  the 
question  above  all  things  a  personal  one.  This  time 
Valentine  accepted  that  condition.  He  sat  for  a  moment 
twisting  his  champagne-glass  about  in  his  long  fingers, 
and  glancing  rapidly  from  the  doctor  to  Cuckoo,  who 
heard  this  conversation  without  very  well  understanding 
it.  Indeed,  she  sat  beneath  her  bell  of  violets  in  much 
confusion,  distraite  in  her  desire  to  command  intellectual 
faculties  which  she  did  not  possess.  Valentine  watched 
her  narrowly,  though  he  seemed  unattentive  to  her. 
Perhaps  he  thought  of  his  delivery  of  his  gospel  to  her,  and 
wondered  if  she  recalled  it  at  this  moment;  or  perhaps 
once  more  he  began  to  rejoice  in  her  mental  distress  and 
alienation, 

"Wade,"  he  said  "  the  champagne  to  Mr.  Addison. 
Well,  doctor,  suppose  I  acknowledged  that  I  did  so  — 
mind,  I  don't  acknowledge  it!  —  you  might,  on  your 
side,  think  something  too  —  that  I  am  mad,  for  instance. 
Ah!  Miss  Bright  has  knocked  over  her  glass!  " 

Cuckoo  murmured  a  stumbling  apology,  gazing  with 
nervous  intentness  at  Valentine.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
he  had  a  gift  of  divination.  Doctor  Levillier  laughed 
gently. 

"  I  am  not  inclined  to  suppose  all  my  opponents  in 


438  FLAMES 

thought  mad,"  he  said.  "Still,  such  a  belief  would 
certainly  indicate  in  the  holder  of  it  the  possession  of  a 
mind  so  uncommon,  so  unique,  I  may  say,  that  it  would 
naturally  rouse  one  to  very  close  attention  and  observa- 
tion of  it." 

"  Exactly,"  Valentine  rejoined. 

A  certain  audacity  was  slowly  creeping  into  his  de- 
meanour and  growing  while  he  talked.  It  manifested 
itself  in  slight  gesticulations,  conceited  movements  of 
the  hand  and  head,  in  the  colour  of  the  voice  and  the 
blunt  directness  of  his  glances. 

"  Exactly.  Attention  and  observation  directed 
towards  the  object  of  satisfying  yourself  that  the  man  — 
myself,  let  us  say  —  was  mad?  You  don't  reply.  Let 
me  ask  you  a  question.  Why  should  a  profound  belief 
in  human  power  of  will  indicate  madness?  " 

"  A  belief  that  is  not  based  on  any  foundation  or  proof 
—  that  is  my  point.  An  extraordinary  belief,  personal  to 
one  person,  rejected  by  mankind  in  the  mass,  and 
founded  upon  nothing,  no  fact,  no  inference  even,  in  the 
history  of  mankind,  is  decidedly  a  strong  indication  of 
dementia." 

"  But  suppose  it  is  a  belief  founded  upon  a  fact?  " 

"  Of  course  that  would  entirely  alter  the  matter." 

The  two  men  looked  across  at  one  another  with  a 
long  and  direct  glance  full  in  the  eyes.  Cuckoo  watched 
them  anxiously.  Julian  sat  with  his  eyes  cast  down.  He 
seemed  unaware  that  there  was  any  one  near  him,  any 
conversation  going  on  around  him.  Wade  moved  softly 
about,  ministering  to  the  wants  of  his  master's  guests. 
Course  succeeded  course. 

"  Do  you  propose  to  give  me  a  fact  proving  the  rea- 
sonableness of  entertaining  a  belief  that  a  man,  by  his 
own  deliberate  action  of  the  will,  can  compass  immor- 
tality on  earth,  or  even  prolong  his  life  in  such  a  way 
as  this,  for  instance;  by  the  successful  domination,  or 
banishment,  of  any  disease  recognized  as  mortal? — For 
I  acknowledge  that  the  will  to  live  may  prolong  for  a 
certain  time  a  life  threatened  merely  by  the  sapping  ac- 
tion of  old  age.  —  Do  you  propose  to  give  me  a  fact  to 
prove  that?" 


CAF6   NOIR  439 

*'  I  do  not  say  that  I  intend  to  give  it  to  you,"  Valen- 
tine answered,  with  scarcely  veiled  insolence. 

"But  you  know  of  such  a  fact?"  said  the  doctor, 
ignoring  his  host's  tone. 

"Possibly." 

The  voice  of  Valentine  thrilled  with  triumph  as  he 
spoke  the  word.  Again  he  glanced  at  the  lady  of  the 
feathers. 

"  Cannot  you  convert  the  doctor?  "  he  asked  her,  in 
tones  full  of  sarcastic  meaning.  "You  know  something 
of  my  theories,  something  of  their  putting  into  prac- 
tice." 

"I  don't  know  —  I  don't  understand,"  she  mur- 
mured helplessly. 

She  looked  down  at  her  plate,  flushing  scarlet  with  a 
sense  of  shame  at  her  own  complete  mental  impo- 
tence. 

"  What's  the  matter.  Cuckoo?  " 

The  words  came  slowly  from  the  lips  of  Julian,  whose 
heavy  eyes  were  now  raised  and  fixed  with  a  stare  of 
lethargic  wonder  upon  Cuckoo. 

"  What  are  they  saying  to  you?  " 

His  look  travelled  on,  still  slow  and  unwieldy,  to  the 
doctor  and  to  Valentine. 

"  I  won't  have  Cuckoo  worried,"  he  said.  And  then 
he  relapsed  with  a  mechanical  abruptness  upon  the  con- 
sideration of  his  food.  Valentine  seemed  about  to  make 
some  laughing  rejoinder,  but,  after  a  glance  at  Julian,  he 
apparently  resigned  the  idea  as  absurd,  and,  turning 
again  to  the  doctor,  remarked : 

"It  is  sometimes  injudicious  to  state  all  that  one 
knows." 

"  Still  more  so  all  that  one  does  not  know.  But  I 
have  no  desire  to  press  you,"  the  doctor  said,  lightly. 
"This  is  wonderful  wine.     Where  did  you  get  it?  " 

"At  the  Cercle  Blanc  sale,"  Valentine  answered 
quickly. 

It  seemed  that  he  was  slightly  irritated.  He  frowned 
and  cast  a  glance  that  was  almost  threatening  upon  the 
doctor. 

"Would  you  assume  weakness  in  every  strong  man 


440  FLAMES 

who  refuses  to  take  off  his  coat,  roll  up  his  shirt  sleeve 
and  display  the  muscle  of  his  arm?  "  he  said,  harshly, 

"  The  case  is  not  analogous.  That  muscle  exists  in 
the  world  is  a  proved  fact.  When  I  was  at  Eton,  I  was 
knocked  down  by  a  boy  stronger  than  I  was.  Since 
then  I  acknowledge  the  power  of  muscle." 

"  And  have  you  never  been  knocked  down  mentally? ' ' 

"  Not  in  the  way  you  suggest." 

Valentine  shifted  in  his  seat.  It  did  not  escape  the 
doctor  that  he  had  the  air  of  a  man  longing  to  either  say 
or  do  something  startling,  but  apparently  held  back  by 
tugging  considerations  of  prudence  or  of  expediency. 

"Some  day  you  maybe,"  he  said  at  last,  obviously 
conquered  by  this  prompting  prudence. 

"  When  I  am,  the  '  Christian  scientist'  who  once 
declared  to  me  that  she  cured  a  sprained  ankle  by  walk- 
ing on  it  many  miles  a  day,  and  thinking  it  was  well 
while  she  walked,  shall  receive  my  respectful  apologies," 
the  doctor  answered,  laughing. 

Valentine  handed  the  lady  of  the  feathers  some  straw- 
berries.    On  her  nervous  refusal  of  them  he  exclaimed: 

"I  see  you  have  finished  your  wine,  doctor.  No 
more?     Really?     Nor  you,  Julian?  " 

Julian  made  no  reply.  He  simply  pushed  his  glass 
a  little  away  from  him. 

"  Then  shall  we  accompany  Miss  Bright  into  the  tent- 
room?  I  thought  we  would  have  coffee  there.  You 
have  never  seen  the  tentroom,"  he  added  to  Cuckoo, 
getting  up  from  his  seat  as  he  spoke. 

"I  usually  sit  in  it  when  I  am  alone  or  with  Julian. 
You  will  not  mind  our  cigarettes,   I  know." 

He  led  the  way  down  the  scented  corridor,  scented 
with  the  thin,  gently  bright  scent  of  violets. 

"The  tentroom  has  a  history,"  he  continued  to 
Cuckoo,  opening  a  door  on  the  left.  "It  was  once  the 
scene  of  an  —  an  absurd  experiment.     Eh,  doctor?" 

They  entered  the  room.  As  they  did  so  the  hot, 
sticky  scent  of  the  hidden  hyacinths  poured  out  to  meet 
them.  For  a  moment  it  seemed  overwhelming,  and 
Cuckoo  hung  back  with  an  almost  unconquerable  sensa- 
tion of  aversion  and  even  of  fear.      The  aspect  of  this 


CAF£    NOIR  441 

small  room  astonished  her;  she  had  never  seen  any 
chamber  so  arranged.  Certainly,  it  looked  very  unusual 
to-night.  The  small  fire  was  hidden  by  a  large  screen 
of  white  wood,  with  panels  of  dull  green  brocade.  Only 
one  of  the  electric  lamps  was  turned  on,  and  that  was 
shaded,  so  that  the  diffused  light  was  faint,  a  mere  un- 
flickering  twilight.  The  masses  of  tulips  hung  like 
quantities  of  monotonously  similar  shadows  from  the 
tented  ceiling,  and  the  flood  of  scent  caused  the  room  to 
seem  even  smaller  than  it  really  was,  a  tiny  temple  dedi- 
cated to  the  uncommon,  perhaps  to  the  sinister. 

"We  will  see  the  old  year  out  and  drink  our  cafe  noir 
here,"  said  Valentine.  "Where  will  you  sit,  Miss 
Bright?  " 

"I  don't  mind.  It's  all  one  to  me,"  murmured 
Cuckoo.  "What  a  funny  room,  though!  "  she  could  not 
help  adding.      "It  ain't  like  a  room  at  all." 

"Imagine  it  an  Arab  tent,  the  home  of  a  Bedouin 
Sheik  in  a  desert  of  Nubia,"  said  Valentine.  "This 
divan  is  very  comfortable.  Let  me  arrange  the  cushions 
for  you." 

As  he  bent  over  her  to  do  so,  he  murmured  in  her  ear: 

"And  you,  having  tossed  your  will  away,  are  noth- 
ing! " 

They  had  been  the  last  words  of  his  gospel,  pro- 
claimed to  her  that  night  on  which  she  prayed! 

The  lady  of  the  feathers  looked  up  at  him  with  a  new 
knowledge,  the  knowledge  of  her  recent  lonely  nights,  of 
which  he  knew  nothing  as  yet ;  the  knowledge  of  that 
glancing  spectre  of  want  whom,  by  her  own  action,  she 
summoned  while  she  feared  its  gaunt  presence;  the 
knowledge  of  the  doctor's  trust  in  her;  the  knowledge 
of  her  great  love  for  Julian;  the  knowledge,  perhaps, 
that  leaning  her  arms  upon  the  slippery  horse-hair 
sofa  in  her  little  room,  she  had  once  thrown  a  mut- 
tered prayer,  incoherent,  unfinished,  yet  sincere,  out  into 
the  great  darkness  that  encompasses  the  beginning,  the 
progress,  and  the  ending  of  all  human  lives  with  mys- 
tery. She  looked  up  at  him  with  this  world  of  mingling 
knowledge  in  her  eyes,  and  Valentine  drew  away  from 
her  with  a  stifling  sensation  of  frigid  awe. 


443  FLAMES 

"What — what?"  he  began.  Then,  recovering  him- 
self, he  turned  suddenly  away. 

"  Sit  down,  doctor.  Do  you  like  my  flowers?  Julian, 
are  you  still  tired?  The  coffee  will  wake  you  up.  A 
cigarette,  doctor,  or  a  cigar?     Here  are  the  matches." 

Julian  came  over  heavily  and  sat  down  on  the  divan 
by  Cuckoo.  His  unnatural  lethargy  was  gradually  pass- 
ing away  into  a  more  explicable  fatigue,  no  longer 
speechless.  Leaning  on  his  elbow,  he  looked  into  her 
face  with  his  weary  eyes,  in  which  to-night  there  was  a 
curious  dim  pathos.  It  seemed  that  the  only  thing  which 
had  so  far  struck  him  during  the  evening  was  still 
Cuckoo's  confusion  over  her  own  misunderstanding  at 
dinner,  for  he  now  again  referred  to  it. 

"Have  they  been  chaffing  you.  Cuckoo?"  he  said, 
striking  a  match  on  the  heel  of  his  shoe  and  lighting  a 
cigarette.  "Have  they  been  worrying  you?  Never 
mind.  It 's  only  Val's  fun.  He  does  n't  mean  anything 
by  it.  I  say,  how  awfully  pale  you  look  to-night,  and 
thin." 

He  paused,  considering  her  with  a  glance  that  was 
almost  severe. 

"I  'm  all  right,"  said  Cuckoo,  trying  to  repress  the 
agitation  she  always  felt  now  when  speaking  to  Julian. 
"  I  ain't  ill.  Why  do  n't  you  come  to  see  me  now  ?"  she 
added.      "  You  do  n't  never  come. " 

Julian  glanced  over  to  Valentine,  who  was  standing 
by  the  hearth  talking  to  the  doctor,  who  sat  in  an  arm- 
chair, 

"I've  been  busy,"  he  said.  "I've  had  a  lot  of 
things  to  do.  Do  you  miss  me.  Cuckoo,  when  I  do  n't 
come?  " 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  but  without  softness.  Then  she 
added,  lowering  her  voice  almost  to  a  whisper: 

"  Do  n't  he  want  you  to  come?  " 

Julian  did  not  reply,  but  puffed  rather  moodily  at 
his  cigarette,  glancing  towards  Valentine.  He  was 
thinking  of  the  conversation  at  the  Savoy  and  of  the  an- 
tagonism between  Valentine  and  Cuckoo.  Suddenly 
there  came  into  his  mind  a  dull  wish  to  reconcile  these 
two  on  the  last  night  of  the  year,  to  —  in  Valentine's 


CAF6   NOIR  443 

own  words  —  bury  the  hatchet.  He  sat  meditating  over 
his  plan  and  trying  to  revolve  different  and  dramatic 
methods  of  accomplishing  it.     Presently  he  said: 

"Cuckoo,  you  and  Val  have  got  to  be  friends  from 
to-night." 

She  started,  stirring  uneasily  on  the  great  cushions 
that  were  heaped  at  her  back. 

"We  are,"  she  said. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  Not  real  friends." 

"Oh,  we  are  all  right." 

"  D'  you  hate  him  still?  " 

"  He  do  n't  like  me,"  she  answered,  evasively. 

"Yet  he  invites  you  here,"  Julian  said.  "Why  does 
he  do  that?  " 

"I  dunno,"  Cuckoo  said. 

She  wondered  why.  Not  so  the  doctor,  to  whom  it 
had  become  evident  that  Valentine  had  asked  his  guests 
out  of  vanity,  and  with  a  view  to  some  peculiar  and  mon- 
strous display  of  his  power  over  Julian.  While  Cuckoo 
and  Julian  talked  together  on  the  divan  Valentine  came 
over  to  the  doctor.  His  eyes  still  held  an  expression  of 
awe  created  in  him  by  the  strange  new  glance  of  the 
lady  of  the  feathers.  He  sought  to  conquer  this  sensa- 
tion of  awe,  which  fought  fiercely  against  his  intended 
blatant  triumph  of  to-night. 

"Your  cigarette  all  right,  doctor?"  he  said,  in  a 
quick  voice. 

"A  delicious  one,  thanks." 

Valentine  began  touching  the  ornaments  on  the  man- 
telpiece with  nervous  fingers. 

"  We  did  n't  quite  finish  our  conversation  at  dinner," 
he  said. 

"No?" 

"  I  did  not  give  you  a  reason  for  my  belief." 

A  deep  interest  woke  in  the  doctor,  but  he  did  not 
show  it.     He  thought: 

"So,  he  must  insanely  return  to  this  one  subject, 
round  which  his  brain  makes  an  eternal  tour." 

"No,"  he  said  aloud;  "you  have  a  reason,  then?" 

"Yes." 


444  FLAMES 

Valentine's  voice  vibrated  with  arrogance.  His  hand 
still  darted  to  and  fro  on  the  mantelpiece  while  he  stood 
looking  down  at  the  doctor.  There  was  something  in 
his  manner  that  suggested  a  mixture  of  triumph  and 
fighting  anxiety  in  his  mind.  But,  as  he  continued  to 
speak,  the  former  got  the  upper  hand. 

"A  reason  that  might  convince  even  you  if  you 
knew  it." 

"Convince  me,  of  exactly  what?"  the  doctor  asked, 
indifferently. 

His  indifference  seemed  to  pique  Valentine,  who  re- 
plied with  energy: 

"That  human  will  can  be  cultivated,  has  been  de- 
veloped, until  it  has  moved  the  mountain,  achieved  the 
thing  men  call  a  miracle." 

"  By  whom  has  it  been  so  developed?  " 

Valentine  hesitated  almost  like  one  who  fears  to  be 
led  into  a  trap.  The  doctor  could  see  "By  me!" 
trembling  upon  his  lips.  He  did  n't  actually  utter  it, 
but  instead  exclaimed  with  a  laugh: 

"  Some  day  you  will  discover." 

And  as  he  spoke  he  looked  at  Julian  and  the  lady  of 
the  feathers.  The  doctor  was  anxious  to  lead  him  on, 
and  leaning  easily  back  in  his  comfortable  chair,  occu- 
pied himself  with  his  cigarette  for  a  minute,  as  a  man 
calmly  at  ease.  Between  his  whiffs  he  presently  threw 
out  carelessly: 

"  This  man  has  compassed  eternity  by  his  own  will?  " 

"Oh,  I  did  not  say  that." 

"  He  has  contented  himself  with  curing  a  sprained 
ankle  by  walking  upon  it,  like  my  Christian  scientist?  " 

"Now  you  fly  to  the  other  extreme  —  from  the  very 
great  to  the  very  little.     Take  a  middle  course." 

"Where  would  that  lead  me?" 

Valentine  threw  a  glance  round  the  dim,  hot,  scented 
little  room,  then  once  more  his  eyes  rested  on  Julian 
and  Cuckoo. 

"What  if  I  said  —  To  this  little  room,  to  Julian  and 
that  girl,  to  myself?  "  he  answered  in  a  low  voice. 

"And  the  miracle?"  said  the  doctor. 

The  door  opened.     Wade  appeared  with  coffee. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  HEALTH  OF  THE  NEW  YEAR 

Valentine  turned  quickly,  with  an  air  of  mingled 
irritation  and  relief  at  the  interruption. 

"We  must  all  take  coffee,"  he  cried.  "It  will  give 
us  impetus,  vitality,  so  that  as  the  old  year  dies  we  may 
live  more  swiftly,  more  strongly.  I  like  to  feel  that  my 
life  is  increasing  while  that  of  another  —  the  old  year  for 
instance  —  is  decreasing." 

But  the  doctor  noticed  that  his  eyes  had  rested  with 
a  curiously  significant  expression  upon  Julian  as  he  spoke 
the  last  sentence. 

"  Leave  the  coffee-pot  on  that  little  table,"  he  added 
to  Wade,  when  the  man  had  filled  all  four  cups,  "We 
may  want  it. " 

Wade  obeyed  him  and  disappeared. 

"Your  man  makes  wonderful  coffee,"  the  doctor 
said,  sipping. 

"Yes.  Julian,  have  you  reached  that  cafe  noir  I 
spoke  of  the  other  day?"  Valentine  asked  laughingly, 
returning  to  his  simile  of  the  greedy  man  and  happiness. 

"I  don't  know.  Not  yet,  Val,  I  think,"  Julian 
answered.  This  coffee  seemed  to  give  him  life  at  last. 
The  heavy  weariness  disappeared  from  his  face.  His 
eyes  gleamed  with  something  of  their  old  youthfulness 
and  ardour. 

"  If  so,  I  must  be  close  on  happiness,"  he  added. 

As  he  spoke  he  looked  into  the  hollow  eyes  of  Cuckoo, 
seeming,  strangely,  to  seek  in  them  the  will-o'-the-wisp 
of  which  he  spoke. 

"  Never  look  for  it  in  unfurnished  rooms,"  Valentine 
exclaimed  with  sudden  violence. 

This  glance  of  Julian,  so  the  doctor  judged,  precipi- 

445 


446  FLAMES 

tated  his  curious  and  subtle  insanity   towards    an  out- 
burst. 

"You  will  find  it  in  the  thing  that  is  most  definite, 
not  in  the  thing  that  is  most  indefinite.  Isn't  it  so, 
doctor?  Happiness  lies  in  the  positive,  not  in  the  nega- 
tive." 

*'  Happiness  lies  in  many  places.  Each  finds  it  in  a 
different  house." 

"Perhaps  you  can't  tell  where  I  should  find  it,  Val," 
Julian  interposed,  with  a  certain  sturdiness  of  manner. 

"  No,"  said  Cuckoo,  eagerly. 

The  coffee,  it  appeared,  had  an  effect  upon  her  too. 
There  was  a  life,  a  keen  intentness  in  her  thin,  white 
face,  not  visible  there  before.  Valentine  turned  round 
upon  her.  He  was  holding  his  coffee-cup  in  his  right 
hand.     With  the  other  he  put  his  cigarette  to  his  lips. 

"  Can  you  tell  us  where  Mr.  Addison  is  likely  to  find 
happiness?"  he  said.  "Can  you  tell  us,  lady  of  the 
feathers?" 

"No.  He  can  tell  himself.  That's  all,"  she  said. 
"Let  him  find  it  himself." 

"  Each  for  himself  and  God  for  us  all,  eh?  " 

"  I  do  n't  know  about  God,"  she  said,  looking  towards 
the  doctor  as  if  for  assistance. 

"Each  for  another  and  God  for  us  all  is  perhaps  a 
better  motto,"  the  doctor  interposed. 

"Ah,  Charity!  " 

Valentine  took  out  his  watch  and  looked  at  it. 

"Charity!  Midnight  is  approaching,  and,  of  course, 
this  is  Charity's  benefit-night  by  common  consent.  Thank 
you,  doctor,  for  the  hint.  Did  the  dying  old  year  prompt 
you  with  its  husky  voice  full  of  the  wind  and  of  the 
snow?  " 

"Possibly." 

"Let  us  have  some  more  coffee.  Julian,  give  me 
Miss  Bright's  cup.  You  shall  have  your  absinthe  pres- 
ently.    Wade  has  not  forgotten  it." 

"Absinthe?"  said  the  doctor, 

"  Julian  drinks  it  every  night.  He  has  got  tired  of 
whiskey.      Doctor,  your  cup  too." 

"We  shall  not  sleep  a  wink  to-night." 


THE  HEALTH  OF  THE  NEW  YEAR  447 

**  All  the  better.  Why  should  not  we  see  the  dawn 
in,  as  we  did  once  before?     You  recollect." 

"Ah,  Val!  on  the  night  of  your  trance." 

"Yes.    You  were  not  here  then,  lady  of  the  feathers." 

He  spoke  with  a  light  mockery. 

"I  fainted,  or  died  —  the  doctor  was  deceived  into 
thinking  so — and  was  born  again  in  the  dawn  of  the  very 
day  on  which  Julian  first  met  you." 

Cuckoo  shivered  with  the  recollection  of  Mart  and 
her  horror  of  that  night. 

"Why  do  you  shiver?"  Valentine  continued.  "Do 
you  find  the  room  cold?  " 

"No,  no." 

Indeed,  the  heat  and  the  overpowering  scent  of  the 
hyacinths  had  previously  weighed  upon  her  physique,  and 
increased  the  malaise  into  which  her  curious  new  dutiful- 
ness,  and  the  faint  spectre  which  drew  near  to  her,  had 
brought  her. 

"  Perhaps  you  shiver  in  the  influence  of  this  little 
room,"  he  continued,  persistently.  "Julian  and  I  once 
did  so.      Eh,  Julian?  " 

"Yes,  in  those  sittings." 

"I  didn't  shiver,"  Cuckoo  said,  bluntly  and  very 
obviously  lying. 

She  quickly  drank  some  more  coffee. 

"If  you  had,  it  might  not  have  been  astonishing," 
said  Valentine.  "  For  this  little  room  has  seen  marvels, 
and  strange  things  that  happen  perhaps  stamp  their 
strange  impression  upon  the  places  in  which  they  happen. 
We  ought  to  discuss  the  occult,  doctor,  on  the  last  night 
of  the  year." 

"  By  all  means." 

"  How  long  ago  it  seems!  "  Julian  said  suddenly,  with 
a  sigh. 

"Yes,"  Valentine  answered.  "Because  so  much  has 
happened  in  the  interval.  The  greedy  man  has  eaten  so 
many  courses,  Julian." 

He  seemed  to  take  a  delight  in  throwing  out  allusions 
to  one  and  the  other  of  his  guests,  allusions  which  no- 
body but  the  person  addressed  could  understand  rightly. 
For  he  now  went  on,  addressing  himself  to  Cuckoo: 


448  FLAMES 

"In  this  little  room  was  committed  the  great  act  of 
brigandage  of  which  I  once  spoke  to  you.  Do  you  remem- 
ber? " 

She  shook  her  head. 

**  Never  mind.  But,  though  you  cannot  remember, 
that  might  make  you  shiver." 

"What  act  of  brigandage,  Valentine?  "  Julian  asked. 

"  Oh^  the  attempt — my  attempt  to  seize  upon  a  dif- 
ferent soul." 

"But  you  failed." 

"  Did  I?     Do  you  think  so,  doctor?  " 

His  apparent  audacity  seemed  to  increase.  In  the 
twilight  of  the  scented  room  he  drew  himself  up  as  he 
stood  by  the  brocaded  screen  that  hid  the  fire.  He 
closed  and  unclosed  rapidly  his  left  hand  which  hung  at 
his  side.      His  foot  tapped  the  thick  carpet  gently. 

"  Did  you  not?  "  the  doctor  answered  quietly. 

But  Julian  was  roused  to  vivacity. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Valentine?"  he  said.  "Of 
course  you  may  have  changed,  or  developed,  or  whatever 
you  like  to  call  it,  since  then.  But  to  say  you  have  got 
a  different  soul!  " 

"Is  absurd?  Yes,  you  are  right.  Because  if  I  had 
got  a  different  soul  the  original  *!,'  that  was  dissatisfied 
with  itself,  must  have  ceased  to  be.  Since  the  soul  of  a 
man — his  will  to  do  things,  his  will  to  feel  things — is  the 
man  himself,  if  I  had  a  different  soul  I  should  be  another 
man.     The  former  man  would  have  ceased  to  be." 

"Or  would  be  elsewhere." 

It  was  the  doctor  who  spoke,  and  he  spoke  without 
special  interest,  simply  expressing  his  thought  of  what 
might  happen  in  so  whimsical  an  event  as  that  harped 
upon  by  Valentine.  But  Valentine  seemed  painfully 
struck  by  the  almost  idle  words. 

"  Elsewhere!  "  he  exclaimed,  with  a  lowering  expres- 
sion. "What  do  you  mean,  doctor?  What  do  you  im- 
ply?" 

The  doctor  looked  at  him  surprised. 

"  Merely  that  a  thing  expelled  is  not  necessarily  a 
thing  slain.  If  you  turn  me  out  of  this  room  I  am  not 
certain  to  expire  on  the  doormat." 


THE  HEALTH  OF  THE  NEW  YEAR  449 

Valentine  broke  into  a  nervous  and  uneasy  laugh,  and 
cast  a  quick  glance  all  around  him,  and  especially  on 
Cuckoo,  who  sat  listening  silently  with  her  eyebrows 
drawn  together  in  a  pent  frown  of  puzzled  attention. 

"  I  see,  I  see,"  he  said  hastily.  And  here  Julian 
broke  in. 

"  But  the  whole  thing  *s  impossible,"  he  said  with  a 
laugh. 

"  You  would  say  so,  doctor?  " 

Valentine  addressed  this  question  to  Doctor  Levillier 
in  a  very  marked  and  urgent  manner. 

'*  Yoa  would  say  so,  since  the  will  of  man  cannot  per- 
form miracles?  " 

"  Certainly,  I  should  say  so,  despite  the  triumphs  of 
hypnotism.  A  man  may  change  greatly  through  outside 
influence,  or  perform  occasional  acts  foreign  to  his  na- 
ture under  the  influence  of  '  suggestion  '  or  hypnotism. 
But  I  do  not  believe  he  can  change  radically  and  perma- 
nently, except  from  one  cause." 

The  last  words  were  spoken  after  a  moment  of  hesi- 
tation.    Valentine  rejoined  quickly: 

"What?  What?  One  cause,  you  say!  You  allow 
that — wait,  though!     What  is  the  cause?  " 

Doctor  Levillier  was  silent.  He  was  asking  himself 
should  he  play  this  forcing  card,  make  this  sharp,  cut- 
ting experiment.     He  resolved  that  he  would  make  it. 

"  A  man  may  change  radically,"  he  said,  "if  he  be- 
comes insane." 

A  short  breath,  like  a  sigh,  came  from  Cuckoo.  Val- 
entine stood  quite  still,  regarding  the  doctor  closely  for 
a  moment.     Then  he  said  contemptuously: 

"  Mad!     Oh,  madmen  do  n't  interest  me." 

The  doctor  had  gained  nothing  from  his  experiment. 
It  was  impossible  to  gather  from  Valentine's  manner 
that  he  was  in  any  way  struck  by  this  suggestion,  and  in- 
deed he  abandoned  all  allusion  to  it  with  careless  haste, 
and  returned  to  that  other  suggestion  of  which  the  doc- 
tor himself  had  thought  nothing. 

"Supposing  the  soul  of  a  man  to  be  expelled,"  he 
said,  abruptly,  "  where — where  do  you  suppose  it  would 
go,  would  be? " 


450  .  FLAMES 

It  was  obvious  that  he  endeavoured  to  speak  lightly, 
but  there  was  a  most  peculiar  anxiety  visible  in  his  man- 
ner.    The  doctor  wondered  from  what  cause  it  sprang. 

**  I  have  never  formed  a  supposition  on  that  matter," 
he  said. 

"  Well — well — try  to  form  one  now.  Yes,  and  you, 
Julian,  too." 

He  did  not  address  himself  to  the  lady  of  the  feathers, 
but  he  looked  at  her  long  and  narrowly.  The  doctor  lit 
another  cigarette.  He  seemed  to  be  seriously  consider- 
ing this  odd  question.  Julian,  whose  lethargy  was 
changing  into  an  almost  equally  pronounced  excitement, 
was  not  so  hesitating.  As  if  struck  by  a  sudden  flashing 
idea,  he  exclaimed: 

*'  How  if  it  was  in  the  air?  How  if  it  was  wandering 
about  from  place  to  place.  By  God,  Val!"  he  cried, 
with  emphasis,  **do  you  know  what  I  read  in  a  book  I 
took  up  from  your  shelves  the  other  day  —  something 
about  souls  being  like  flames?  It  was  in  Rossetti: 
Flames!" 

He  turned  to  Cuckoo  and  stared  into  her  eyes. 

**  I  was  half  asleep  when  I  read  it,"  he  said.  "Why 
should  I  remember  it  now?  That  flame  —  I  saw  that 
flame  months  ago."  He  seemed  like  a  man  puzzling 
something  out,  trying  to  trace  a  way  through  a  tangled 
maze  of  thought  that  yet  might  be  clear.  "  It  came 
from  you,  Val,  that  night,  with  a  cry  like  a  lost  thing. 
A  soul  expelled,  did  you  say? " 

Suddenly  his  face  was  set  in  an  awestruck  gravity. 

"Why  —  but  then,  if  so,  that  flame  would  he  you. 
Valentine,  the  flame  that  seemed  to  haunt  me,  that  I 
have  seen  in — " 

He  looked  at  Cuckoo  again  and  was  silent. 

"  Yes,  Julian?  "  Valentine  said  in  a  hard,  thin  voice. 
"Go  on,  I  am  listening." 

Julian  stared  at  him  with  strong  excitement. 

"  And  what  are  you,  then,  Valentine?  Where  do  you 
come  from?  "  he  said  slowly. 

"  From  Marr. " 

The  words  came  from  the  divan,  from  the  dry  lips  of 
Cuckoo.      Doctor  Levillier  knew  not  why,   but  he  was 


THE  HEALTH  OF  THE  NEW  YEAR  451 

thrilled  to  the  very  soul  by  them,  as  by  a  revelation 
throwing  strong  light  upon  the  depths  of  things. 
Whether  it  was  the  influence  of  this  strange  scented 
room,  in  which  strange  things  had  happened,  or  the  in- 
fluence of  the  hour  and  the  climax  and  death  of  the  year, 
or  a  voice  in  his  heart  speaking  to  him  with  authority, 
he  could  not  tell.  Only  he  knew  that  on  a  sudden  all 
his  guiding  reason,  all  his  knowledge,  all  his  cool  con- 
templation of  the  physician  and  common  sense  of  the 
man,  were  swept  entirely  away.  His  theory  of  insanity 
seemed  in  a  moment  the  theory  of  a  dwarf  intellect  try- 
ing to  stick  wretched,  absurd  pins  through  angels — 
white  or  black — that  it  thought  butterflies.  His  conver- 
sation with  Cuckoo  on  the  Hampstead  Heights  seemed 
the  vain  babble  of  a  tricked  and  impotent  observer.  His 
mind  fell  on  its  knees  before  the  mind  of  the  lady  of  the 
feathers.  Reason  was  stricken  by  instinct.  The  con- 
fused feeling  of  the  woman  had  conquered  the  logical 
inferences  of  the  man.  From  that  moment  the  doctor 
secretly  abandoned  the  old  landmarks  which  had  guided 
him  all  his  life,  and  entered  into  a  new  world — a  world 
in  which  he  would  not  have  dreamed  of  permitting  any 
of  his  patients  to  walk  if  he  could  help  it.  A  strange 
magic  floated  round  him  like  a  mist  blotting  out  the  crude 
familiarities  of  the  normal  world.  The  tentroom,  with 
its  shadowy  tulips,  its  scented  warmth,  its  pale  twilight, 
its  quick  silences  when  voices  ceased,  was  a  temple  of 
wonder  and  a  home  of  the  miraculous.  And  those  gath- 
ered in  it,  what  were  they?  Men  and  a  woman?  Bodies? 
Earthly  creatures?  No.  To  his  mind  they  were  stripped 
bare  of  the  clothes  in  which  man — governed  by  decrees 
of  some  hidden  power — must  make  his  life  pilgrimage. 
They  were  stripped  bare  and  naked  of  their  bodies. 
They  were  warm,  stirring,  disembodied  things  —  they 
were  flames  leaping,  waving,  contending,  aspiring.  And 
he  remembered  the  night  when  he  sat  alone  in  the  draw- 
ing-room of  Valentine,  and  saw  the  red  walls  glow,  and 
the  light  deepen,  and  saw  the  stillness  grow  to  move- 
ment, and  the  shadows  come  away  from  their  back- 
ground, and  take  forms — the  forms  of  flames.  Was  that 
night   a   night  of  prophesy?     Were    those  flames  silent 


452  FLAMES 

voices  speaking  to  the  ear  of  his  mind?  He  looked  around 
him  like  a  man  in  a  strange  country,  who  takes  a  long 
breath  and  liberates  his  soul  in  wonder.  He  looked 
around,  and  the  shadowy,  thin  girl  leaning  forward  on 
the  divan,  with  one  arm  outstretched  as  if  she  gave  a 
message,  was  among  the  other  flames  as  a  flame  upon  an 
altar.  At  least  his  instinct  had  not  played  him  false 
with  regard  to  her.  He  knew  it  now.  In  the  wild  and 
sad  streets,  where  feet  of  men  tread  ever,  where  tears  of 
women  flow  ever,  grow  flowers  of  Paradise,  strange 
flowers,  leap  flames  from  the  eternal  fires  of  heaven. 
And  the  voice  of  Cuckoo  thrilled  him  as  the  voice  of 
revelation. 

Valentine  turned  upon  the  lady  of  the  feathers,  hear- 
ing her  cry. 

'*Marr!"  he  said,   *' your  lover  who  died!     Ah!" 

The  brutality  of  the  remark  was  so  unexpected,  so 
savage,  that  it  struck  all  those  who  heard  it  like  a  whip. 
Cuckoo  shrank  back  among  her  cushions  trembling. 
Julian  made  a  slight  forward  movement  as  if  to  stop 
Valentine.  The  doctor  laid  his  hands  on  the  arms  of 
his  chair  and  pressed  them  hard.  He  felt  a  need  of 
physical  energy.  In  the  sudden  silence  Valentine 
touched  the  electric  bell.  Before  any  one  spoke  it  was 
answered  by  Wade,  who  carried  a  tray  on  which  stood 
various  bottles  and  glasses. 

"  We  must  counteract  the  exciting  effects  of  our  cafe 
noir,"  Valentine  said,  addressing  his  guests  in  a  group. 
'*  Otherwise  we  shall  be  strung  up  to  a  pitch  of  tension 
that  will  make  us  think  the  requiem  of  church  bells, 
which  we  shall  hear  in  a  few  minutes,  the  voices  of 
spirits  or  of  spectres.  Julian,  here  is  your  absinthe. 
What  will  you  drink,  Miss  Bright?  Brandy,  lemonade, 
whiskey? " 

"Lemonade,  please,"  Cuckoo  said,  almost  in  a 
whisper. 

The  tears  were  crowding  in  her  eyes.  She  dared  not 
look  Julian  in  the  face.  Never  before  had  her  past 
risen  up  before  her  painted  in  such  grim  and  undying 
colours.  The  reprise  of  Valentine  had  been  as  the 
reprise  of  a  Maxim  gun  to  a  volley  fired  by  a  child  from 


THE  HEALTH  OF  THE  NEW  YEAR  453 

an  air-tube.  So  Cuckoo  felt.  But  how  greatly  was  she 
deceived!  Perhaps  physical  conditions  played  a  subtle 
part  in  the  terrible  desolation  that  seized  her  now,  after 
her  outburst  of  daring  and  of  excitement.  The  warmth 
and  smallness  of  the  room,  the  penetrating  scent  that 
filled  it,  even  the  movements  of  her  companions,  the 
sound  of  their  voices,  suddenly  became  almost  insup- 
portable to  Cuckoo.  She  was  the  victim  of  a  reaction 
that  was  so  swift  and  so  intense  as  to  be  unnatural. 
And  in  it  both  her  mind  and  body  were  bound  in  chains. 
Then  she  was  petrified.  Her  very  heart  felt  cold  and 
cramped,  and  then  hard,  icy,  inhuman.  Her  tears  did 
not  fall,  but  were  dried  up  in  her  eyes,  like  dew  by  a 
scorching  sun.  She  looked  at  Julian,  and  felt  as  indif- 
ferent towards  him  as  if  he  had  been  a  shadow  on  the 
grass  in  the  evening  time.  Then  he  became  remote, 
with  a  removedness  attained  by  no  shadow  even.  For  a 
shadow  is  in  the  world,  and  Julian  seemed  beyond  the 
world  to  Cuckoo.  She  thought,  even  repeated,  with 
tiny  lip-movements,  the  cruel  words  of  Valentine, 
and  they  seemed  to  her  no  longer  cruel,  or  of  any 
meaning,  bad  or  good.  For  they  came  from  too  far 
away.  They  were  as  a  cry  of  shrill  music  from  a  cave 
leagues  onward  beyond  the  caves  of  any  winds. 

Valentine  poured  out  some  lemonade  and  gave  it  to 
her.  She  accepted  it  mechanically.  She  even  put  it  to 
her  lips  and  drank  some  of  it.  But  her  palate  was  aware 
of  no  flavour,  no  coolness  of  liquid.  And  she  continued 
sipping  without  tasting  anything. 

Meanwhile  Julian  was  saying  to  Valentine: 

"  I  do  n't  think  I  '11  take  any  absinthe  to-night.  Give 
me  some  lemonade  too." 

"  Lemonade  for  you?  Nonsense.  I  ordered  the 
absinthe  specially.     You  must  have  some.      Here  it  is." 

As  he  spoke  he  poured  some  of  the  opalescent  liquid 
into  a  tumbler  and  handed  it  to  Julian.  While  he  did  so 
his  eyes  were  on  the  doctor  and  they  gleamed  again  with 
a  sort  of  audacity  or  triumph.  He  seemed  recovering 
himself,  returning  to  his  former  mood  and  veiled  inten- 
tions. And  Doctor  Levillier  thought  he  saw  the  flame 
of  Valentine's  soul  glow  more  deeply  and  fiercely.     The 


454  FLAMES 

three  men,  as  if  with  one  accord,  ignored  the  lady  of  the 
feathers  at  this  period  of  the  evening.  Valentine,  having 
shot  his  bolt,  left  his  victim  to  shudder  in  the  dust. 
Julian  and  the  doctor,  full  of  pity  or  of  wonder,  were 
drawn  instinctively  to  leave  her  for  the  moment  outside 
of  the  circle  of  intimacy,  lest  the  conflict  should  be 
renewed.  They  did  not  know  how  far  outside  of  it  she 
felt;  how  dim  the  twilight  was  becoming  to  her  eyes: 
how  dim  the  voices  to  her  ears.  She  lay  back  on  her 
pillows,  in  the  shadow  of  the  divan,  and  they  supposed 
her  to  be  listening,  as  before,  to  what  they  said;  to  be 
drawing  into  her  nostrils  the  scent  of  the  hyacinths,  and 
into  her  soul — it  might  be^some  fragments  of  their  ut- 
tered thoughts.  But  for  the  moment  they  seemed  to  put 
her  outside  the  door. 

Julian  did  not  protest  against  the  absinthe.  He  took 
it  and  placed  it  on  a  little  table  beside  him,  and  as  he 
talked  he  occasionally  drank  a  little  of  it,  till  his  glass 
was  empty.     Valentine  had  again  looked  at  his  watch. 

"The  flame  of  the  year  is  flickering  very  low,"  he 
said. 

This  simile  of  the  flame  of  the  year,  so  ordinary,  he 
had  spoken  against  his  will.  He  asked  himself  angrily 
why  he  had  said  flame,  and  again  the  doctor  saw  the 
flame  of  Valentine's  soul  trying  to  leap  higher,  to  aspire 
to  some  strange  and  further  region  than  that  in  which  it 
seemed  to  dwell.  Julian  sat  looking  at  Valentine  with  a 
gaze  that  was  surely  new  in  his  eyes,  the  dawning  gaze 
of  inquiry  which  a  man  directs  upon  a  stranger  just  come 
into  his  life.  He  had  not  alluded  in  any  way  to  Cuckoo's 
startling  and  vehement  interposition.  Valentine  had 
killed  that  conversation  with  one  blow,  it  seemed.  They 
buried  it  by  deserting  it.  Yet  the  thought  of  it  was  ob- 
viously with  them,  making  quick  interchange  of  words 
on  another  subject  difficult.  Valentine  had  seized  again 
on  the  poor,  prostrate  year;  yet  he  carried  even  to  it  the 
memory  of  that  which  seemed  to  encompass  them  as 
with  a  ring  of  fire,  and  that  despite  himself. 

**We  shall  hear  the  bells  directly,"  he  added.  "I 
hate  bells  at  night.     They  will  sound  odd  in  this  room." 

"Very  odd,"  the  doctor  said. 


THE  HEALTH  OF  THE  NEW  YEAR  455 

*' We  ought  to  sit  reviewing  our  past  year,"  Valen- 
tine went  on. 

"  Our  past  year  and  all  it  has  done  for  us. " 

*'  Do  you  think  it  has  done  much  for  you,  Addison?" 
the  doctor  asked.  And,  despite  his  intention,  there  was 
a  certain  significance  in  his  tone. 

Julian  looked  rather  grave  and  moody,  yet  excited  too, 
like  a  man  who  might  burst  into  either  gaiety  or  anger 
at  a  moment's  notice. 

*'I  suppose  it  has,"  he  answered.  "Yes,  more  than 
any  year  since  I  was  quite  a  boy." 

"It  has  taught  you  how  to  live,"  Valentine  said 
quickly. 

"Or  how  to — die,"  the  doctor  could  not  resist 
saying. 

"Why  do  you  say  that,  doctor?"  Valentine  asked 
sharply.  "Julian  is  neither  sick  nor  sad;  are  you, 
Julian?" 

"  Oh,  I  do  n't  know.     Do  n't  bother  about  me. " 

But  Valentine  seemed  suddenly  determined  that  Julian 
should  state  in  precise  terms  his  contentment  with  his 
present  fate. 

"You  are  making  your  grand  tour  towards  happi- 
ness," he  exclaimed.  "Dessert,  cafi  noir — then  the 
cigarette  and  contentment." 

"  I  have  had  the  cafi  noir,"  Julian  said,  indicating  his 
empty  cup,  which  Wade  had  by  accident  omitted  to  clear 
away.     "  I  have  had  the  cigarette. " 

"Well.     What  then?     Are  you  unhappy?  " 

"I  tell  you  I  don't  know.  Give  me  some  more  ab- 
sinthe." 

The  doctor  watched  his  excitement  growing  as  he 
drank.     It  seemed  an  excitement  adverse  to  Valentine. 

"  One  may  have  too  much  black  coffee,"  he  suddenly 
said. 

"And  that  exerts  a  very  depressing  effect  upon  the 
nerves,"  said  the  doctor,  taking  him  literally.  "  Neither 
you  nor  I  are  likely  to  sleep  well  to-night,  Addison." 

"I  never  sleep  well  now,  doctor,"  Julian  said. 

All  this  time  he  continued  to  regard  Valentine  in  the 
peculiar,  observant  manner  of  a  stranger  who  is  trying 


456  FLAMES 

to  make  up  his  mind  about  the  unfamiliar  man  at  whom 
he  looks, 

"Then  you  should  not  drink  black  cofifee." 

As  he  spoke  a  very  faint  sound  of  bells  penetrated  to 
the  tentroom. 

**  The  psychological  moment!  "  said  Valentine. 

And  then  they  were  all  silent,  listening. 

To  the  doctor,  the  prey  of  magic  art  since  the  soft 
cry  of  the  lady  of  the  feathers,  the  bells  seemed  magical 
and  strange  to-night,  thin  and  dreamy  and  remote. 
They  rang  outside  the  circle  of  the  flames,  yet  they,  too, 
had  an  eerie  meaning.  Nor  did  their  music  come,  he 
thought,  from  any  church  tower,  from  any  belfry,  sum- 
moned by  the  tugging  hands  of  men.  Very  softly  they 
rang.  Their  sound  was  deadened  by  the  thick  draperies. 
They  ceased. 

"My  year  is  born,"  Valentine  said. 

"Your  year?"  the  doctor  repeated. 

"Yes.  I  feel  that  in  this  year  I  shall  culminate;  I 
shall  touch  a  point;  I  shall  put  the  corner-stone  to  the 
temple  of  my  ambition.  No  one  can  prevent  me  now, 
no  one.     Look,  she  has  fainted!  " 

He  had  been  watching  Cuckoo,  and  had  seen  her  pos- 
ture of  mere  rest  change,  almost  imperceptibly,  to  the 
prostration  of  insensibility. 

The  doctor  sprang  up  from  his  chair.  Julian  uttered 
an  exclamation.  Valentine  only  smiled.  The  door  was 
opened.  A  fan  was  used.  Air  was  let  into  the  room. 
Presently  Cuckoo  stirred  and  sat  up.  The  three  men 
were  gathered  round  her,  and  suddenly  Valentine  said : 

"My  trance  over   again.     The  lady  of   the  feathers 
imitates  me." 

Julian  turned  round  to  him  with  abrupt  irritation. 

"That's  not  so,"  he  said.  "Cuckoo  is  herself 
always."     He  turned  again  to  her. 

"Are  you  better?"  he  asked,  touching  her  hand 
gently. 

"  Yes,  I  'm  all  right.     It  was  them — them." 

She  glanced  vaguely  round  at  the  tulips,  as  if  search- 
ing for  the  cause  of  the  scent  which  filled  the  room. 

"  There  are  hyacinths  somewhere,"  the  doctor  said. 


THE  HEALTH  OF  THE  NEW  YEAR  457 

"Yes,  they  are  hidden!"  said  Valentine.  "A  hid- 
den power  is  the  greatest  power.  But  now  you  may  see 
them." 

And  he  drew  from  a  nook,  guarded  by  some  large 
ferns,  a  pot  of  red  hyacinths. 

Cuckoo  sat  up  and  drank  a  little  brandy,  which  the 
doctor  gave  to  her.  Some  colour  came  into  her  pale  and 
thin  cheeks. 

"  I  'm  as  right  as  ninepence  now,"  she  said,  with  an 
effort  after  brightness. 

The  bells  began  again. 

"What's  that?"  she  asked.  "Not  New  Year, 
is  it?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Valentine.  "A  happy  New  Year 
to  you,  lady  of  the  feathers." 

Julian  was  struck  by  a  sudden  thought. 

"Val,"  he  said,  "Cuckoo,  I  want  you  to  be  real 
friends  this  year." 

He  caught  hold  of  Valentine's  hand  and  placed  it  in 
Cuckoo's.  But  then,  again,  a  bewilderment  seemed  to 
take  hold  of  him,  for  even  as  he  touched  Valentine's 
hand  he  looked  at  him  askance,  and  the  eagerness  died 
away  from  his  face. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  muttered  to  himself,  and  get- 
ting up  from  the  end  of  the  divan,  where  he  had  been 
sitting,  he  moved  away  towards  the  fire,  leaving  Cuckoo's 
hand  in  the  hand  of  Valentine. 

Valentine  smiled  coldly  on  Cuckoo. 

"Lady  of  the  feathers,"  he  said,  "we  are  to  be 
allies." 

"What's  that?"  she  asked,  pulling  her  hand  away, 
directly  Julian  had  turned  his  back  upon  them. 

"When  people  fight  together  against  a  common  enemy 
they  are  allies." 

"Then  we  ain't,"  she  whispered,  "  New  Year  or  not. " 

"You  defy  me,"  he  said,  raising  his  voice  so  that  the 
doctor  might  hear  the  words. 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

"  Doctor,  do  you  hear?  " 

He  seemed  suddenly  bent  on  forcing  a  quarrel.  Doctor 
Levillier  felt  again  that  sense  of  dread  and  horror  which 


458  FLAMES 

had  attacked  him  now  more  than  once  of  late  in  Valen- 
tine's presence.  This  time  the  sensation  was  so  acute 
that  he  could  scarcely  combat  it  sufficiently  to  reply. 

'*I  hear,"  he  murmured. 

"Julian!"  Valentine  called.  "Julian,  come  here. 
Miss  Bright  wishes  to  tell  you  something." 

Julian  turned  round. 

"  Now,  lady  of  the  feathers!  " 

But  Cuckoo  burst  into  a  shrill  little  laugh.  Her  head 
was  spinning  again. 

"I've  nothing — nothing  to  say,"  she  cried  out. 
**Give  me  some  more  brandy." 

"  Very  well.  Let  us  all  drink  to  the  health  of  the  New 
Year." 

Valentine  filled  the  glasses — Julian's  with  absinthe — 
and  gave  the  toast: 

"The  New  Year!" 

They  all  raised  their  glasses  to  their  lips  simul- 
taneously. One  fell  with  a  crash  to  the  ground  and  was 
broken.     It  was  Julian's. 

"I  won't  drink  it,"  he  said,  doggedly,  looking  at 
Valentine. 

There  was  a  silence.     Then  Valentine  said,  calmly: 

"  Have  you  an  animus  against  the  thing  you  do  n't  yet 
know?" 

It  was  sufficiently  obvious  that  he  alluded  to  the  year 
just  coming  in  upon  London.  But  the  words  were  taken 
by  the  doctor,  and  apparently  by  Julian,  in  a  hidden  and 
different  sense. 

"Perhaps  because  I  don't  yet  know  it  thoroughly, 
and  had  thought  I  did,"  Julian  answered,  staring  him 
full  in  the  face  still  with  that  strange  glance  of  mingled 
interrogation  and  bewilderment. 

Valentine  watched  him. 

"  You  are  treating  the  poor  thing  —  and  my  carpet  — 
scurvily,  Julian,"  he  said.  "And  you  have  startled  Miss 
Bright." 

Cuckoo's  eyes  were  shining. 

"  No,"  she  ejaculated. 

Valentine  rang  the  bell  and  directed  Wade  to  collect 
the  fragments  of  glass.     While  the  man  was  doing  so 


THE  HEALTH  OF  THE  NEW  YEAR  459 

silence  again  reigned,  and  the  little  room  seemed  full  of 
uneasiness.  Only  Valentine  either  was  or  affected  to  be 
nonchalant.  As  soon  as  Wade  had  gone  he  said  to  the 
doctor: 

"  This  room  is  destined  to  be  dedicated  to  strange 
uses,  and  to  influence  those  who  come  within  it.  Julian 
is  not  himself  to-night." 

"Are  you?  "  Julian  asked. 

"Myself?" 

"Yes." 

"  My  dear  Julian,  we  shall  be  forced  to  think  the 
absinthe  has  been  at  work  too  busily  in  your  brain. 
What  is  the  matter?" 

"Nothing." 

"  One  would  think  we  had  been  having  a  sitting,  you 
are  so  excited." 

Julian  suddenly  drew  his  breath  sharply,  as  if  struck 
by  a  shot  of  an  idea. 

"  Let  us  have  one,"  he  cried. 

The  distant  bells  rang  faintly.  The  doctor  thrilled  to 
the  suggestion,  still  bound  by  magic,  surely.  For  now, 
since  the  inspiring  exclamation  of  Cuckoo,  which  had 
broken  his  theories  on  the  wheel  and  swept  his  reason 
like  a  dead  flower  along  the  wind,  he  no  longer  con- 
demned, as  a  danger  only,  that  which  had  produced  the 
trance  from  which,  as  from  a  strange  prison,  had  come 
the  new  Valentine.  The  former  sitting  had,  it  seemed, 
beckoned  that  trance,  and  with  the  trance  had  beckoned 
an  incredibly  evil  and  powerful  thing.  What  if  that 
which  had  the  power  to  give  had  also  the  power  to  take 
away?  Often  it  is  so  in  ordinary  conditions  of  life. 
Why  not  also  in  extraordinary  conditions?  So  his 
thoughts  ran,  fantastically  enough,  to  the  sound  of  the 
far-off  bells. 

"A  good  notion,"  he  said  on  the  spur  of  the  moment 
and  this  quick  reflection. 

"You  think  so?"  said  Valentine.  "You  who  con- 
demned us,  even  wrung  a  promise  from  us  against  sitting. " 

His  regard  was  suspicious. 

"  Perhaps  I  have  changed  my  mind.  Perhaps  I  take 
the  matter  less  seriously,"  said  the  doctor. 


460  FLAMES 

He  had  never  been  more  near  lying,  nor  was  he 
ashamed  of  his  dissimulation.  There  are  creatures 
against  which  we  must,  whatever  our  principles,  take  up 
the  nearest  weapon  that  comes  to  hand.  The  doctor 
looked  at  Julian  and  at  Valentine,  and  could  have  per- 
jured himself  a  thousand  times  to  wrest  the  one  from 
the  other. 

*'  But  Miss  Bright  is  ill,"  said  Valentine. 

"  No,  I  ain't.     I'm  all  right  now,"  Cuckoo  said. 

She  did  not  understand  what  was  being  proposed,  but 
she  gathered  that  the  doctor  desired  it.  That  was 
enough  for  her.  Valentine  looked  at  them  all  three  with 
eyes  that  plainly  betokened  a  busy  mind,  then  a  smile 
flickered  over  his  lips.  It  was  the  smile  of  one  in  power 
watching  his  slaves  creeping  at  their  work — for  him.  He 
touched  the  point — of  which  he  had  spoken  earlier  in  the 
evening — in  that  smile,  a  point  of  delirium. 

**  Let  them  try  to  break  me,"  his  mind  said  within 
itself.      "Their  very  trial  shall  consolidate  my  empire." 

And  then  his  eyes  left  the  others  and  rested  only  on 
Julian. 

"  Very  well,  we  will  sit,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  SIXTH  SITTING 

Julian  was  painfully  excited,  but  he  strove  to  repress 
all  evidences  of  his  inward  turmoil  as  he  began  to  pull 
out  a  table  and  arrange  it  in  the  centre  of  the  room. 
This  act  threw  him  with  a  jerk  back  into  the  days  of  the 
past,  recalling  so  vividly  the  former  life  of  himself  and 
Valentine  that  he  could  not  help  saying: 

"  This  is  like  last  year." 

"Like  the  year  that  the  locust  hath  eaten,"  Valen- 
tine answered.  "  We  must  push  our  empty  white  years 
down  into  the  water,  Julian." 

Julian  made  no  reply.  The  table  was  soon  arranged, 
the  screen  was  drawn  more  closely  round  the  fire,  which 
had  been  allowed  to  burn  low.  Four  chairs  were  set. 
Valentine  turned  to  Cuckoo,  who  sat  hunched  on  the 
divan  staring  with  wide  open  eyes  at  these  preparations. 

"  Will  you  come?"  he  said,  with  his  hands  on  the 
back  of  one  of  the  chairs. 

*'  Whatever  are  we  going  to  do?  "  she  asked  nervously. 

"Something  very  simple — and  perhaps  very  foolish," 
said  the  doctor,  wondering,  indeed,  now  the  moment  for 
beginning  the  phantasy  was  arrived,  whether  he  was  not 
to  blame  for  encouraging  a  thing  that  in  his  under  mind 
he  so  thoroughly  disapproved  of.  "We  are  going  to  sit 
round  that  table  in  the  dark  with  our  hands  upon  it,  and 
wait." 

"Whatever  for?" 

Her  simple  and  blatant  question  caused  the  doctor 
actually  to  blush.  His  confusion  was  quite  obvious,  but 
it  was  covered  by  Julian,  who  exclaimed,  rather  roughly: 

"  Now,  Cuckoo,  don't  chatter,  but  come  here  and  sit 
quiet." 

He  drew  her  from  the  divan  into  a  chair  and  sat  down 

461 


462  FLAMES 

beside  her.  Valentine  glided  swiftly  into  the  chair  on 
her  other  side  and  said: 

"Oh,  doctor,  I  forgot  the  light.  Do  you  mind  turn- 
ing it  out?  " 

The  doctor  obeyed,  felt  his  way  to  the  chair  opposite 
Cuckoo  and  sat  down. 

Almost  at  the  moment  he  turned  out  the  light  the 
bells  that  rang,  "  Z^  roi  est  mort^  vive  le  roi,''  ceased. 
Cuckoo  was  directed  to  lay  her  hands  on  the  table,  and 
to  touch  with  her  fingers  the  fingers  of  her  companions. 
She  did  so,  trembling.  This  was  a  new  experience  to 
her,  and  her  entire  lack  of  knowledge  of  what  was  ex- 
pected to  happen  filled  the  darkness  with  immoderate 
possibilities,  and  her  soul  with  awe  and  with  confusion. 
Then,  to  sit  between  the  man  she  loved  and  the  man 
she  loathed,  thus  in  the  blackness,  was  a  nerve-shaking 
experience  which  her  preceding  fainting-fit  did  not  de- 
prive of  its  normal  terrors.  The  hand  of  Valentine  and 
the  hand  of  Julian  were  as  ice  and  as  fire  to  her.  The 
darkness  seemed  crowded  with  nameless  things.  She 
could  fancy  that  she  heard  it  whisper  incessantly  in  her 
ear. 

But  the  real  interest  of  this  sitting,  to  any  little 
demon  gifted  with  a  miraculous  power  of  pushing  its 
detective  way  into  the  minds  of  the  sitters,  would  have 
lain,  perhaps,  chiefly  in  the  mind  of  Doctor  Levillier. 
It  has  been  said  that,  suddenly  struck  to  the  soul  by  the 
conviction  with  which  the  instinctive  Cuckoo  pronounced 
those  words,  "From  Marr, "  Doctor  Levillier  entered 
into  a  new  world,  abandoning  old  landmarks.  He  re- 
mained in  this  new  world  of  the  senses  certainly,  but 
already  he  was  becoming  accustomed  to  it,  clear-headed, 
keen-sighted,  even  reasonable  in  it.  Moved  by  some 
strange  conviction  that  he  was  in  the  presence  of  an  in- 
explicable mystery,  he  no  longer  tried  to  explain  it  in 
some  ordinary  fashion.  He  abandoned  his  theory  of  in- 
sanity, or  it  abandoned  him.  In  any  case,  it  was  dead, 
buried,  whether  he  would  or  no.  He  recognized  a 
mystery  at  present  beyond  his  capacity  to  understand  or 
to  explain.  Having  got  thus  far,  and  having  entered,  at 
Julian's  word,  into  this  present  circumstance  of  sitting, 


THE   SIXTH   SITTING  463 

table-turning,  or  rapping,  or  whatever  you  may  choose 
to  call  it,  he  cleared  any  ordinary  furniture  of  doctor's 
prejudices  right  out  of  h*s  mind  —  made  a  clean  sweep 
of  them.  That  done  —  and  the  doing  of  it  required 
some  strong  effort  —  his  mind  was  receptive,  ready  for 
anything,  odd  or  ordinary,  that  might  come  along. 
There  he  sat  with  his  empty  room  waiting  to  be  filled 
—  the  only  reasonable  way  of  waiting  for  that  of  which 
we  have  no  knowledge.  He  did  not  clamour  "  I  won't," 
or  "I  will."  He  said  nothing  at  all,  only  waited  with 
the  strict  desire  and  intention  of  recognizing  things  to 
be  what  they  truly  were,  neither  dressing  them  up  nor 
tearing  their  garments  off  their  backs.  When  he  put  out 
the  light  and  sat  down,  what  he  expected  —  so  far  as  he 
expected  anything  —  was  this,  that  the  addition  of  dark- 
ness would  add  a  cloud  to  his  mind,  and  endeavour  to 
give  various  finishing-touches  to  any  spurious  excitement 
created  in  him,  however  much  against  his  will,  by  the 
enemy's  doings.  In  this  expectation  he  was  entirely 
deceived.  The  falling  of  darkness  drew  a  veil  from  his 
mind,  leaving  his  mental  sight  singularly,  even  preter- 
naturally,  clear.  The  falling  of  silence  gave  an  amazing 
acuteness  to  his  inner  sense  of  hearing.  Certain  people 
are  so  made  that  they  can,  under  certain  conditions, 
and  at  certain  moments,  hear  the  workings  of  their 
neighbours'  minds,  as  you  and  I  can  hear  the  whirr  of 
machinery,  or  the  cry  of  a  child  in  the  street.  An  ordi- 
nary man  or  woman  can  only  hear  a  mind  when  lips, 
teeth,  and  tongue  utter  it  with  living  sounds  that  set  the 
air  in  vibration.  These  abnormal  people  hear,  in  these 
abnormal  moments,  the  silent  murmurs  of  the  mind  mak- 
ing no  effort  at  all  to  atter  itself  through  the  usual 
speech  apparatus.  Till  this  moment  the  doctor  had 
supposed  himself  to  be  an  entirely  normal  man,  but  he 
had  been  sitting  only  a  very  short  time  before  he  began 
to  become  aware  of  the  silent  murmurs  of  these  three 
minds  around  him.  The  darkness  set  his  own  mind  free 
from  clouds  of  excitement  and  from  mists  of  unreason. 
That  was  the  first  step.  But  it  did  more.  It  developed 
in  him  this  marvellous  faculty  of  the  hearing  of  silence, 
called  by  some  divination.     All  his  senses  were  rendered 


464  FLAMES 

amazingly  acute.  A  perfectly  distinct  impression  of 
the  precise  feelings  of  Cuckoo,  of  Valentine,  and  of 
Julian  respectively  came  to  him  as  he  sat  there,  although 
he  could  neither  see  nor  hear  them.  Each  of  them 
seemed  to  pour  his  or  her  thoughts  into  the  doctor's 
mind.  Thus,  at  first,  did  his  empty  room  become  fur- 
nished with  the  thoughts  of  his  companions.  He  was 
sitting  in  the  circle  between  Julian  and  Valentine  and 
held  their  hands.  And  it  was  Valentine  who  forged  the 
first  link  in  this  strange  chain  of  unuttered  communica- 
tion. As  the  darkness  cleared  the  doctor's  mind,  and 
set  him  once  more  on  his  feet  —  although  in  a  new 
world  —  an  aroma  of  triumph  floated  to  him  softly,  like 
a  scent  in  a  damp  wood  at  night.  He  heard  then  the 
mind  of  Valentine  murmuring  in  the  stillness  the 
Litany  of  its  glory,  a  long  and  an  ornate  Litany,  deep  and 
full,  and  he  knew  that  he  had  been  right  in  supposing 
that  Valentine  had  invited  him  to  witness  that  glory. 
But  the  doctor  became  aware,  too,  that  at  moments  the 
Litany  faltered,  hesitated,  as  if  the  mind  of  Valentine 
grew  uncertain  or  was  assailed  by  vague  fears.  And 
these  fears  ran  like  little  pale  furtive  things  to  Valen- 
tine from  the  lady  of  the  feathers.  By  degrees  the  doc- 
tor could  imagine  that  he  actually  saw  them  stealing 
back  and  forth.  Now  one  would  come  alone  as  if  to 
listen  to  the  Litany,  and  then  another  would  follow,  and 
another,  and,  growing  brave,  they  would  combine  against 
it.  Then  Valentine  would  waver  and  become  uneasy,  as 
one  who  hears  little  voices  crying  against  him  in  the 
night,  and  knows  not  whence  they  come  or  from  whom. 
But  the  Litany  would  begin  again,  and  Valentine  would 
triumph  over  the  pale  fears  and  they  would  shrink  away. 
And  in  the  Litany  one  name  recurred  again  and  again  — 
the  name  of  Julian.  Over  him  was  the  triumph.  In  his 
ruin  and  fall  and  ultimate  destruction  the  glory  lived. 
To  witness  the  complete  possibility  of  this  ruin,  the  com- 
plete sovereignty  of  this  glory,  the  doctor  and  the  lady 
of  the  feathers  were  there.  And  the  doctor  grew  to 
feel  that  only  some  outside  circumstance,  alarming  Val- 
entine to  anxiety  and  waking  Julian  to  a  new  observa- 
tion, had  hindered  the  intended  triumph.     What  circum- 


THE    SIXTH   SITTING  465 

stance  was  that?  He  looked  back  along  the  past  evening 
and  found  it  in  himself,  in  his  theory  that  a  soul  expelled 
was  not  necessarily  a  soul  dead.  The  rift  in  the  glory 
of  the  Litany  came  with  that.  Valentine  was  trying  to 
close  it  by  this  act  of  sitting,  to  impress  the  strength  of 
his  will  upon  his  companions  in  the  darkness.  The  doc- 
tor felt  his  effort  like  a  continually  repeated  blow, 
stealthy  and  hard  and  merciless. 

And  now,  in  the  darkness  and  in  the  silence,  the  doctor 
heard  the  mind  of  Julian.  Another  scent  floated  through 
that  imagined  damp  and  breathing  wood  from  another 
— but  how  different — soul-flower.  No  Litany  of  triumph 
murmured  in  the  blackness  where  Julian  sat,  but  a 
hoarse  and  broken  solo,  part  despair,  part  fear,  part 
anger,  and  all  perplexed  and  flooded  with  bewilderment 
and  with  excitement.  The  doctor  drew  into  him  the  mur- 
mur of  Julian's  mind  until  it  seemed  to  become,  for  the 
time,  the  murmur  of  his  own  mind.  He  was  conscious  of 
a  dreadful  turmoil  of  doubt,  and  dread  and  perplexity,  so 
strong,  so  painful,  that  it  lay  upon  him  like  a  dense  and 
a  suffocating  burden.  In  that  moment  he  knew  utterly 
that  the  greatest  load  in  the  world  laid  on  any  man  is 
the  load  of  his  own,  perhaps  beloved,  sin.  He  was 
staggering  wearily  with  Julian  away  from  the  light. 
His  eyes  were  dim — with  the  eyes  of  Julian.  His  ears,  like 
Julian's,  were  assailed  with  the  dastard  clamour  of 
the  calling  sin.  ''Listen!  Listen!  you  want  me.  I 
am  here.  Take  me!  Take  me!"  And  the  weltering 
seas  of  heavy  flooding  impotence  rolled  round  him  as 
they  rolled  round  Julian.  He  grew  numb  and  vacant 
and  inert,  then — alive  ever  to  the  murmur  of  Julian's 
mind — caught  a  glimpse,  through  the  waters  of  that 
whelming  sea,  of  far-away  light,  and  heard  that  the 
voices  of  the  importunate  sins  grew  fainter.  But 
whether  the  voices  were  loud  or  low,  whether  the  seas 
flowed  above  his  head  or  sank  and  failed,  he  was  always 
conscious  of  the  dominating  mood  of  almost  wild  per- 
plexity and  a  madness  of  bewilderment.  For  Julian 
stirred  under  the  yoke  that  Valentine  had  laid  upon  him, 
as  if  at  last  conscious  distinctly  that  it  was  indeed  a  yoke, 
and  that  it  galled  him ;  as  if  at  last  conscious,  too,  that 


466  FLAMES 

without  that  yoke  was  freedom.  And  he  shot  against 
Valentine  in  the  darkness  arrows  of  inquiry.  But 
always  he  lived  in  doubt  and  almost  it  terror. 

And  then,  detaching  himself  from  the  triumph,  touched 
with  anxiety,  of  Valentine,  and  from  the  wild  turmoil  of 
Julian,  Dr.  Levillier  opened  the  door  of  his  mind  wide, 
and  the  lady  of  the  feathers  entered  in. 

He  heard  the  thoughts  of  a  woman. 

That  was  strangest  of  all — the  most  fantastic,  eerie, 
wayward,  wonderful  music  the  doctor  had  dreamed  of. 

Have  you  listened  to  far-off  and  mingling  melo- 
dies at  night — melodies  of  things  opposed  and  differ- 
ing, yet  drawn  together,  in  strange  places  far  from  your 
home?  Have  you  heard  a  woman  wailing  over  some 
abominable  sorrow  in  a  dark  house,  and  an  organ — be- 
fore which  filthy  children  dance  fantastically — playing  a 
merry  Neapolitan  tune  in  front  of  it,  while  the  mutter 
of  scowling  men  comes  from  the  blazing  corner  where 
the  gin-palace  faces  the  night?  There  you  have  sorrow, 
sunshine,  crime,  singing  together  in  a  great  city.  Or 
have  you  stood  in  a  land  not  your  own,  and  gleaned  the 
whisper  of  an  ancient  river,  the  sough  of  a  desert  wind, 
the  hoarse  and  tuneless  song  of  a  black  man  at  a  water- 
wheel,  the  soprano  ballad  of  a  warbling  hotel  English 
lady,  and  the  remote  and  throbbing  roar  of  a  savage 
Soudanese  hymn  and  beaten  drums  from  the  golden 
Eastern  night?  There  you  have  nature,  toil,  shrill 
civilization  and  war  claiming  you  with  one  effort  in  a 
sad  and  sweet  country.  Or  have  you,  in  a  bright  and 
dewy  morning,  heard  the  "murmur  of  folk  at  their 
prayers,"  the  drone  of  a  church  organ,  and,  beyond  the 
hedgerow,  two  graceless  lovers  quarrelling,  and  an 
atheist,  leaning  over  the  church  gate,  sneering  to  his 
fellow  at  the  devotion  of  deluded  Sabbath-keepers? 
There  you  have  love  of  the  hidden  and  faith,  love  of 
the  visible  and  distrust,  hatred  of  hidden  love  and  faith- 
lessness, making  a  symphony  for  you.  Such  mingled 
music  is  strange — strange  as  life.  But  to  the  doctor 
the  music  of  this  girl.  Cuckoo,  in  the  dark  seemed 
stranger  and  more  eerie  far.  Her  mind  sang  to  him  of 
a    thousand  things  in  a   moment,  as  is   the  fashion  of 


THE   SIXTH   SITTING  467 

women.  Only  men  normally  hear  but  one,  at  most  two 
or  three,  of  the  many  feminine  melodies.  And  now 
Doctor  Levillier  heard  them  all,  as  a  man  may  hear 
those  differing  songs  already  recounted,  simultaneously 
and  clearly.  Degradation  and  the  hopelessness  that 
catches  it  by  the  hand,  passion  and  the  strength  and 
purity  of  passion,  hatred,  fear,  physical  fatigue,  ignorant 
nervousness,  grossness  of  the  gutter,  which  will  cling 
even  to  a  soul  capable  of  great  devotion  and  noble  effort, 
and  accompany  it  on  the  upward  journey,  very  far  and 
very  high,  resolve  and  shrinking,  mere  street-boy 
virulence  of  enmity,  and  mere  angel  tenderness  of  pity 
— all  these  sang  their  song  from  the  mind  and  heart  of 
Cuckoo  to  the  mind  and  heart  of  the  doctor.  It  was  a 
chorus  of  women  in  one  woman,  as  it  so  often  is  in  the 
dearest  women  we  know.  In  that  choir  a  harlot  sat, 
hating,  by  a  girl  who  was  all  love  and  reverence.  And 
they  sang  out  of  the  same  hymn-book.  Jenny  joined 
her  voice  with  Susannah,  Mary  Magdalene  with  Mary 
Mother,  so  near  together  in  one  thing,  so  far  apart  in 
another — alike  in  this,  that  both  were  singing.  And  in 
that  choir — celestial  and  infernal — sang  the  jealous 
woman  with  grey  cheeks  and  haggard  eyes,  and  the 
timorous  woman,  and  she  of  the  fearless  face,  and  the 
woman  who  could  scale  the  stars  for  the  creature  she  wor- 
shipped, and  the  woman  who  could  lie  down  in  the  mud 
and  let  the  world  see  her  there,  and  the  woman  who  had 
sold  her  soul  for  food,  and  a  thin  woman,  such  a  thin, 
almost  transparent,  wistful  creature,  who  was  facing  the 
thing  men  call  with  bated  breath — starvation.  She 
sang  tco,  but,  of  all  these  women,  she  was  the  only  one 
the  doctor  could  not  rightly  hear  nor  rightly  see.  For 
she,  as  yet,  was  remote,  far  down  the  level  line  of  that 
choir,  hardly  perhaps  one  with  it  yet,  faint  of  voice,  dim 
of  outline. 

The  doctor  heard  the  choir  sing,  and  then — 
His  mind,  as  the  time  of  the  darkness  grew  longer, 
continued  to  grow  more  and  more  clear,  until  he  felt 
thoroughly,  and  was  able  to  try  to  analyze  its  unnatural 
condition.  Scales  had  fallen  from  him  and  from  his 
companions  for  him.     Their  bodies  were  clothed,  their 


468  FLAMES 

souls,  their  flames,  seemed  stripped  bare  and  offered  to 
him  naked.  He  had  examined  them  with  this  greedy, 
yet  sane,  attention  and  curiosity.  He  had  led  them  into 
the  empty  room  and  stayed  with  them  there.  He  had 
heard  the  Litany  of  the  Glory  of  Valentine,  and  the  suf- 
focation, and  the  anger,  and  the  stirring  beneath  his 
yoke  of  Julian.  He  had  heard  the  many  women  sing  in 
the  heart  of  the  lady  of  the  feathers.  But  all  this  seemed 
leading  him  forward  and  onward,  step  by  step,  as  to  a 
threshold  beyond  which  was  some  greater,  some  more 
importunate,  thing.  And  he  took  the  last  step  with 
Cuckoo.  It  was  as  if  he  was  handed  on  from  one  room 
to  another,  as  is  the  fashion  in  the  palace  of  a  great 
king,  his  name  being  called  in  each,  and  sent  before,  like 
a  voice  sent  on  the  wind,  and  as  if  Cuckoo  was  in  the 
last  anteroom  that  gave  upon  the  audience-chamber. 
Now  he  had  arrived,  and  suddenly  a  great  wave  of  mys- 
terious expectation  ran  over  him  and  filled  the  cup  of  his 
soul.  He  felt  that  he  stood  still  and  waited.  The  sense 
of  Cuckoo,  of  all  she  felt  and  thought  in  the  darkness, 
gradually  dropped  away  from  him,  like  leaves  from  a 
tree,  till  every  branch  was  leafless.  And  this  autumnal 
ravishment,  like  the  ravishment  of  nature,  was  but  a 
preparation  surely  for  a  future  spring. 

The  doctor  waited  outside  that  door,  beyond  which, 
perhaps,  spring  blossomed  and  sang.  He  lost  at  last  all 
sense  of  being  in  a  company  of  people,  and  felt  as  one 
feels  who  is  entirely  alone,  expectant,  calm,  ready.  And 
still  only  the  darkness  and  the  silence.  Nothing  more 
at  first.     But  presently  what  seemed  to  him  a  marvel. 

He  had  by  this  time  grown  at  ease  with  his  power  of 
thought-reading,  at  ease  with  this  new  sense  of  the 
hearing  of  silence.  The  differing  scents  of  these  three 
flowers  hidden  in  the  night  had  been  breathed  out  to 
him.  With  infallible  certainty  he  had  recognized  each 
one,  differentiated  the  one  from  the  other.  And  as  the 
scent  of  one  flower  had  failed,  the  scent  of  another  had 
risen  upon  him,  until  he  had  known  the  heart  of  each  of 
the  three.  Then  for  a  while  was  the  night  scentless, 
silent,  blank,  empty.  But  presently  the  doctor  was 
aware  of  an  uneasiness  and  of  an  anxiety  stealing  upon 


THE   SIXTH   SITTING  469 

him.  Whence  it  came  he  could  not  tell.  Only  this  he 
knew,  that  he  received  it  from  something,  but  that  it 
came  neither  from  the  lady  of  the  feathers,  from  Valen- 
tine, nor  from  Julian.  From  whom,  then,  could  it 
emanate,  this  weird  eagerness,  this  fluttering,  pulsing 
fear,  and  hope,  and  intention?  From  himself  only?  He 
asked  himself  that  question.  Was  he  communing  in  the 
dark  with  his  own  soul?  He  knew  that  he  was  not.  The 
scent  of  this  new  and  unknown  flower  grew  stronger  in 
the  night,  more  penetrating  and  intentional.  Yet  was  it 
vaguer,  more  distant,  than  that  emitted  by  those  other 
three  flowers.  The  exact  impression  received  by  the 
doctor  at  this  moment  was  very  subtle.  Precisely  it  was 
this:  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  gradually  coming 
into  communication  with  a  fourth  mind,  or  soul;  that 
this  soul  was  actually  more  strong,  more  vehement,  even 
more  determined,  than  the  souls  of  his  three  companions, 
but  that  some  barrier  removed  it  from  him,  set  it  very 
far  of.  The  flame  of  a  match  held  to  a  man's  eyes  may 
dazzle  him  more  than  the  flame  of  a  great  fire  on  the 
horizon.  This  new  flame  was  as  the  latter  in  comparison 
to  match-flames  that  had  been  flaring  in  the  doctor's 
eyes.  And  this  great  and  distant  flame  burned  slowly  in 
a  smoke  of  mystery  and  upon  the  verge  of  dense  dark- 
ness. 

Never  had  the  doctor  known  so  peculiar,  and  even 
awe-striking,  an  experience  as  that  which  he  now  under- 
went. What  utterly  bewildered  him  was  the  circum- 
stance of  this  undoubted  new  and  definite  personality 
enclosed  in  this  tiny  room  with  him  and  with  his  three 
companions.  He  was  receiving  the  impression  of  the 
thoughts  of  a  stranger.  Yet  there  was  no  stranger  in 
the  chamber.  And  he  was  vexed  and  curiously  irritated 
by  the  fact  of  the  impression  being  at  the  same  time  very 
vague  and  very  violent,  like  the  cry  of  a  man  which  reaches 
you  faintly  from  a  very  long  distance,  but  which  you 
feel  instinctively  to  have  been  uttered  with  the  frantic 
force  of  death  or  of  despair.  And  the  mind  of  this 
stranger  was  tugging  at  the  doctor's  mind,  anxiously, 
insistently.  There  was  a  depth  of  distress  in  it  that  was  as 
no  mere  human  distress,  and  that  moved  the  doctor  to  a 


470  FLAMES 

mood  beyond  the  mood  of  tears  or  of  prayers.  There 
came  over  him  an  awful  sense  of  pity  for  this  stranger- 
soul.  What  had  it  done?  How  was  it  circumstanced? 
In  what  ghastly  train  of  events  did  it  move?  It  was 
surely  powerful  and  helpless  at  the  same  time;  a  cripple 
with  a  mind  on  fire  with  fight;  Samson  blind.  He  felt 
that  it  wanted  something — of  him,  or  of  his  companions, 
some  light  in  its  severe  desolation.  Deeper  and  deeper 
grew  his  horror  and  pity  for  it,  deeper  and  deeper  his 
sense  of  its  ill  fate.  The  woe  of  it  was  unearthly,  yet 
more  than  earthly  woe.  Similes  came  to  the  doctor  to 
compare  with  its  dreadful  circumstance:  a  child  mother- 
less in  a  world  all  winter;  a  saint  devoted  to  hell  by 
some  great  error  of  God ;  even  one  more  blasphemous, 
and  more  bizarre  still — God  worsted  by  humanity,  and, 
at  the  last,  helpless  to  reclaim  the  souls  to  which  He  had 
Himself  given  being;  lonely  God  in  a  lonely  heaven, 
seeing  far-off  hell  bursting  with  the  countless  multitudes 
of  the  writhing  lost.  This  last  simile  stayed  with  him. 
He  fancied,  he  felt — not  heard — the  voice  of  this 
frustrate  God  calling  to  him:  "  Do  what  I  could  not  do. 
Strive  to  help  My  impotence.  A  little — a  little — and 
even  yet  hell  would  stand  empty,  the  vacant  courts  of 
heaven  be  filled.     Act — act — act." 

"Doctor,  why  are  you  trembling?  Why  are  you 
trembling?  " 

It  was  the  voice  of  Valentine  that  spoke.  The  doc- 
tor, by  an  effort  so  painful  that  the  memory  of  it  re- 
mained with  him  to  the  end  of  his  life,  recalled  his  mind 
from  its  journey. 

**  Trembling!  "  he  said.  "What  do  you  mean?  I  am 
all  right.  I  am  quietly  in  my  place.  How  long  have 
we  been  sitting?  " 

"An  immense  time  I  fancy.  It  seems  fruitless, 
Julian!" 

"Yes." 

Julian's  voice  sounded  heavy  and  weary. 

"  Do  n't  you  think  we  had  better  stop?  " 

"If  you  like." 

Valentine  got  up  and  turned  on  the  light. 

Then  they  saw  that  the  lady  of  the  feathers,  leaning 


THE    SIXTH    SITTING  471 

back  in  her  chair,  was  fallen  asleep,  no  doubt  from  sheer 
weariness.  Her  face  was  very  white,  and  in  sleep  its 
expression  had  become  ethereal  and  purified.  Her  thin 
hands  still  rested  nervelessly  upon  the  table.  She 
seemed  like  a  little  child  that  had  known  sorrow  early, 
and  sought  gently  to  lose  the  sense  of  it  in  rest. 

"Cuckoo,"  Julian  said,  leaning  over  her, *' Cuckoo!  " 

She  stirred  and  woke. 

"I'm  awfully  done, "  she  murmured,  in  her  street 
voice.      "  Pardon!  " 

She  sat  up. 

"  I  seemed  as  if  I  was  put  to  sleep,"  she  said. 

"You  were,"  Valentine  answered  her,  "I  willed 
that  you  should  sleep." 

He  looked  at  the  doctor,  and  his  eyes  said: 

"  I  have  had  my  triumph.     You  witness  it." 

Cuckoo  reddened  with  anger,  but  she  said  nothing. 

"  Did  you  feel  anything,  Julian?  "  Valentine  asked. 

Julian  looked  strangely  hopeless. 

"  Nothing,"  he  said.  "It  's  all  different  from  what 
it  was;  like  a  dead  thing  that  used  to  be  alive." 

It  seemed  as  if  the  sitting  had  filled  him  with  a  dogged 
despair. 

"A  dead  thing,"  he  repeated. 

Then  he  went  over  to  the  spirit-stand  and  poured  him- 
self out  more  absinthe. 

"  And  you,  doctor?  "  said  Valentine.  "What  did  you 
feel?" 

"I  was  thinking  all  the  time,"  he  said,  "of  other 
things.      Not  of  the  table  or  of  table-turning." 

When  he  and  Cuckoo  left  the  flat  that  night,  or  rather 
in  the  chill  first  morning  of  the  new  year,  they  left  Julian 
with  Valentine. 

He  said  he  would  stay,  speaking  in  the  voice  of  a  man 
drugged  almost  into  uncertainty  of  his  surroundings. 


CHAPTER  V 

T^E  LADY  OF  THE  FEATHERS  STARVES 

Down  in  her  dreary  kitchen,  among  her  dingy  pots 
and  pans,  Mrs.  Brigg  was  filled  with  an  anger  that  seemed 
to  her  as  righteous  as  the  anger  of  a  Puritan  against 
Museum-opening  on  Sunday.  Her  ground-floor  lodger 
was  going  to  the  bad.  Analysed,  reduced  to  its  essence, 
that  was  her  feeling  about  the  lady  of  the  feathers. 
Cuckoo  had  lived  at  number  400  for  a  considerable  time. 
Being,  in  some  ways,  easy-going,  or  perhaps  one  should 
say  rather  reckless,  she  had  given  herself  with  a  good 
enough  grace  to  be  plucked  by  the  claws  of  the  landlady. 
She  had  endured  being  ruthlessly  rooked,  with  but  little 
murmuring,  as  do  so  many  of  her  patient  class,  accus- 
tomed to  be  the  prey  of  each  unit  in  the  large  congrega- 
tion of  the  modern  Fates.  For  months  and  years  she 
had  paid  a  preposterous  price  for  her  badly  furnished 
little  rooms.  She  had  been  overcharged  habitually  for 
every  morsel  of  food  she  ate,  every  drop  of  beer  or  of 
tea  she  drank,  every  fire  that  was  kindled  in  her  badly 
cleaned  grate,  every  candle  that  lighted  her,  almost  every 
match  she  struck.  She  and  Mrs.  Brigg  had  had  many 
rows,  had,  times  without  number,  lifted  up  their  respect- 
ive voices  in  vituperation,  and  shown  command  of  large 
and  vile  vocabularies.  But  these  rows  had  not  been  on 
the  occasion  of  the  open  cheating  of  the  former  by  the 
latter.  Fallen  women,  as  they  are  called,  seldom  resent 
being  cheated  by  those  in  whose  houses  they  live. 
Rather  do  they  expect  the  bleeding  process  as  part  of  the 
penalty  to  be  paid  for  a  lost  character.  The  landlord  of 
the  leper  is  owed,  for  his  charity  and  tolerance,  good  hard 
cash.  The  landlady  of  the  Pariah  puts  down  mentally 
in  each  added-up  bill  this  item:  "  To  loss  of  character — 
so   much."      And   the   Pariah   understands    and    pays. 

472 


LADY   OF   THE    FEATHERS   STARVES  473 

Such  is  the  recognized  dispensation.  Mrs.  Brigg  had  had 
a  fine  time  of  robbery  during  the  stay  of  Cuckoo  in  her 
ugly  house,  and,  in  consequence,  a  certain  queer  and 
slow  respect  for  her  lodger  had  very  gradually  grown  up 
in  her  withered  and  gnarled  old  nature.  She  had  that 
feeling  towards  Cuckoo  that  a  bad  boy,  too  weak  to  steal 
nipples,  has  towards  a  bad  boy  not  too  weak  to  steal 
them.  It  could  hardly  be  called  an  actual  liking.  Of 
that  the  old  creature  in  her  nethermost  Hades  was  nearly 
incapable.  But  she  enjoyed  seeing  apples  off  the  tree  lying 
in  her  kitchen,  and  so  could  have  patted  any  hands  that 
had  gathered  them  nefariously.  So  far  as  she  looked 
into  the  future  she  saw  there  always  Cuckoo,  and  herself 
robbing  Cuckoo  comfortably,  faithfully,  unblamed  and 
unrepentant,  while  the  years  rolled  along,  the  leech  evftr 
at  its  sucking  profession. 

Now  this  agreeable  vision  was  abruptly  changed.  This 
slide  of  the  magic  lantern  was  smashed  to  fragments. 
And  Mrs.  Brigg  was  filled  with  the  righteous  anger  of  a 
balked  and  venerable  robber.  As  a  mother,  dependent 
upon  the  earnings  of  her  child  in  some  godly  profession 
might  feel  on  the  abrupt  and  reasonless  refusal  of  that 
child  to  continue  in  it,  so  did  Mrs.  Brigg  feel  now. 

The  lady  of  the  feathers  had,  for  the  moment  at 
least,  given  up  her  profession.  She  sat  at  home  with 
folded  hands  at  night.  It  was  earth-shaking.  It  stirred 
the  depths  of  the  Brigg  being.  Quakings  of  a  world  in 
commotion  were  as  nothing  to  it.  And  the  sweet  Brigg 
dream  that  had  dawned  on  the  last  night  of  the  old  year, 
dream  of  a  rich  "  toff  "  in  love  with  Cuckoo  and  winding 
her  up  to  gilded  circles,  in  which  the  fall  of  night  set  gay 
ladies  bareheaded,  and  scattered  all  feathered  hats  to 
limbo,  died  childless  and  leaving  no  legacies.  Certainly, 
Cuckoo  was  not  making  money  on  the  quiet  enough  in 
one  night  to  keep  her  as  seven  or  fourteen  nights  would 
formerly  have  supplied.  Mrs.  Brigg  questioned,  remon- 
strated, stormed,  sulked,  was  rude,  insinuating,  artful, 
blunt,  and  blackguardly  —  all  to  no  purpose.  Cuckoo 
would  give  no  explanation  of  her  conduct.  In  the  day 
she  went  out,  but  Mrs.  Brigg  was  not  to  be  deceived  by 
that.     She  based  her  observations  and  conclusions  on 


474  FLAMES 

weighty  matters  connected  with  the  culinary  art  and  with 
things  about  which  her  trained,  disgraceful  intelligence 
could  not  be  deceived.  Cuckoo  was  falling  into  poverty. 
In  the  eyes  of  Brigg  she  had  formerly  been  in  touch  with 
riches,  that  is  to  say,  she  had  —  so  the  landlady  con- 
sidered—  lived  well.  She  had  got  along  without  falling 
into  debt.  The  exorbitant  rent,  regularly  earned,  had 
been  as  regularly  paid.  The  Brigg  perquisites  had  not 
been  disputed.  No  watchful  eye  had  been  directed  upon 
the  claws  that  grabbed  and  clung,  the  fingers  that  filched 
and  retained. 

But  now  was  come  a  devastating  change.  Cuckoo 
grown,  or  growing,  poor  was  no  longer  easy-going. 
Living  much  less  well,  she  also  began  to  keep  a  sharp 
eye  on  all  she  had.  If  it  went  mysteriously,  without 
explanatory  action  of  her  own,  she  called  loudly  on 
Brigg  for  enlightment.  Where  had  it  gone?  The  old 
lady,  disgusted  to  be  brought  to  subterfuge,  a  thing  to 
which  she  was  frankly  unaccustomed,  lied  freely  and 
with  a  good  courage.  But  her  lies  did  not  stand  her  in 
much  stead  with  Cuckoo,  who  had,  from  the  start,  no 
intention  whatever  of  believing  any  word  she  might  say. 
So  war  of  a  novel  kind  came  about  between  them.  Mrs. 
Brigg  was  forced  to  live  and  hear  herself  named  thief, 
a  distressing  circumstance  which  she  could  scarcely  sur- 
mount with  dignity,  whatever  she  might  manage  in  the 
way  of  fortitude.  Denial  only  armed  forces  for  the 
attack.  Battles  were  numerous  and  violent.  Cuckoo, 
who  had  in  some  directions  no  perception  at  all  of  what 
was  humiliating,  took  to  measuring  proportions  of  legs 
of  mutton  going  down  to  Hades  and  remeasuring  them 
on  their  return.  If  the  inches  did  not  tally,  Mrs.  Brigg 
knew  it.  Her  soul  revolted  against  such  surveyor's  work 
on  meat  that  her  own  hands  had  cooked.  She  called 
Cuckoo  names,  and  was  called  worse  names  in  reply. 
But  still  the  measurings  went  on,  and  still  Cuckoo  spent 
her  evenings  within  doors,  sometimes  without  a  fire  in 
the  winter  cold. 

Mrs.  Brigg  therefore  said  within  herself  that  Cuckoo 
had  gone  to  the  bad,  and  beheld,  with  fancy's  agitated 
eye,  a  time  in  the  near  future  when  not  only  prequisites 


LADY    OF   THE    FEATHERS   STARVES  475 

would  be  no  more,  but  the  very  rent  itself  would  be  in 
jeopardy.      Fury  sparkled  in  her  heart. 

Meanwhile  the  situation  of  Cuckoo  above  stairs  was 
becoming  at  once  sordid  and  tragic.  Starvation  is 
always  sordid.  It  exposes  cheek-bones,  puts  sharp 
points  on  elbows,  writes  ugliness  over  a  face,  and  sets  a 
wolf  crouching  in  the  heart.  Tragic  it  must  always  be, 
for  a  peculiar  sorrow  walks  with  it;  but  when  it  is 
obstinate,  and  springs  from  the  mule  in  a  human  being, 
the  tragedy  has  a  lustre,  a  colour  of  its  own.  The  lady 
of  the  feathers  was  forever  obstinate.  She  had  been 
obstinate  in  vice,  she  was  now  obstinate  in  virtue.  In 
the  old  days  Julian  had  said  to  her,  "  Take  some  of  my 
money  and  let  the  streets  alone  —  even  for  one  night." 
She  had  refused.  Now  Doctor  Levillier  had  said  to  her, 
"  Prove  your  will.  Lean  on  it.  Do  something  for 
Julian."  She  could  only  do  this  one  thing.  She  could 
only  leave  the  street!  With  frowning,  staring  obstinacy 
she  left  it.  There  was  always  something  pathetically 
blind  about  Cuckoo's  proceedings.  She  was  not  lucid. 
But  once  she  had  grasped  an  idea  she  was  like  the  limpet 
on  the  rock.  So  now  she  sat  at  home.  Out  of  her  earn- 
ings she  had  managed  to  save  a  very  little  money.  One 
or  two  men  had  made  her  small  presents  from  time  to 
time.  For  a  little  while  she  could  exist.  As  she  sat 
alone  on  those  strange  new  evenings  she  did  much 
mental  arithmetic,  calculating  how  long,  with  these 
reduced  expenses,  which  brought  Mrs.  Brigg's  so  low, 
she  could  live  without  earning.  Sad  sums  were  these, 
whether  rightly  or  wrongly  worked  out.  The  time  must 
be  short.  And  afterwards?  This  question  drove  Cuckoo 
out  in  the  mornings,  vaguely  seeking  an  occupation. 
She  knew  that  London  was  full  of  "good  "  girls,  who 
went  forth  to  work  while  she  lay  in  bed  in  the  morning, 
and  came  home  to  tea,  and  one  boiled  egg  and  water- 
cress, when  she  started  out  in  the  evening.  So  she  put  on 
her  hat  and  jacket  and  went  forth  to  find  out  what  work 
they  did,  and  whether  she  could  join  in  it.  Those  were 
variegated  pilgrimages  full  of  astonishment.  Cuckoo 
would  stroll  along  the  road  till  she  saw,  perhaps,  a  girl 
who  looked  good  —  that  is,  as  unlike  herself  as  possible 


476  FLAMES 

—  descend  into  the  frost,  or  the  mud  from  a  bus.  Then 
she  would  dog  the  footsteps  of  this  girl,  find  out  where 
she  went,  with  a  view  of  deducing  from  it  what  she  did. 
In  this  manner  she  once  came  to  a  sewing-machine  shop 
in  Praed  Street,  on  the  trail  of  a  bright-looking  stranger, 
who  walked  gaily  as  to  pleasant  toil.  Cuckoo  remained 
outside  while  the  stranger  went  in  and  disappeared. 
She  examined  the  window  —  rows  of  sewing-machines, 
beyond  them  the  dressed  head  of  a  woman  in  a  black 
silk  gown.  What  did  the  stranger  do  here  to  gain  a  liv- 
ing, and  that  bright  smile  of  hers?  Suddenly  Cuckoo 
walked  into  the  shop  and  up  to  the  lady  with  the  dressed 
head. 

'A  machine,  ma'am?"  said  the   lady,  with  a  very 
female  look  at  Cuckoo. 

Cuckoo  shook  her  head, 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you?  " 

**  I  'd  like  some  work." 

"Work!"  said  the  lady,  her  voice  travelling  from 
the  contralto  to  the  soprano  register, 

"I  ain't  got  nothing  to  do.  I  want  something;  I  '11 
do  anything,  like  she  does,"  this,  with  a  nod  in  the 
direction  of  a  door  through  which  the  pleasant  stranger 
had  vanished. 

'*  Miss  King;  our  bookkeeper!     You  know  her?  " 

*'  No.     I  only  see  her  in  the  street." 

"Good  morning,"  came  from  the  lady,  and  a  back 
confronted  Cuckoo. 

The  pilgrimages  were  resumed.  Cuckoo  visited 
dressmakers,  bonnet-shops,  ABC  establishments, 
with  no  success.  Her  face,  even  when  unpainted,  told 
its  tale.  Nature  can  write  down  the  truth  of  a  sin  better 
than  art.  Cuckoo  learnt  that  fact  by  her  walks.  But 
still  she  trudged,  learning  each  day  more  truths,  one  of 
which  —  a  finale  to  the  long  sermon,  it  seemed  —  was 
that  there  is  no  army  on  earth  more  difficult  to  enlist  in, 
under  certain  circumstances  her  own,  than  the  army  of 
good  working-girls.  The  day  she  thoroughly  under- 
stood that  finale  Cuckoo  went  home  and  had  a  violent 
row  with  Mrs.  Brigg.  A  cold  scrag  of  mutton  was 
supposed  to  be  the  bone  of  contention,   but  that  was 


LADY    OF   THE    FEATHERS    STARVES  477 

only  supposition.  Cuckoo  was  really  cursing  Mrs. 
Brigg  because  the  world  is  full  of  close  boroughs,  not  at 
all  because  cold  mutton  has  not  learnt  how  to  achieve 
eternal  life,  while  at  the  same  time  fulfilling  its  duties  as 
an  edible.  Not  understanding  this  subtlety  of  emotion, 
Mrs.  Brigg  let  herself  loose  in  sarcasm. 

"Why  do  n't  yer  go  out  of  a  night?  "  she  screamed, 
battering  with  one  hand  on  a  tea-tray,  held  perpendicu- 
larly, to  emphasize  her  words.  "What 's  come  to  yer? 
Go  out;  go  out  of  a  night." 

"  Shan't." 

"Turned  pious,  'ave  yer?"  sneered  the  landlady. 
"Or  waitin'  for  a  'usband?  Which  is  it  to  be?  Mr. 
H' Addison,  I  dessey!     Hee,  hee,  hee. " 

She  burst  into  a  bitter  snigger.  Cuckoo  flushed  scar- 
let and  uttered  words  of  the  pavement.  Any  one  hearing 
her  then  must  have  put  her  down  as  utterly  unredeemed 
and  irredeemable,  a  harridan  to  bandy  foul  language  with 
a  cabman,  or  to  outvie  a  street-urchin  bumped  against 
by  a  rival  in  the  newspaper  trade.  She  covered  Mrs. 
Brigg  with  abuse,  prompted  by  the  gnawings  at  her  heart, 
the  hunger  of  mind  and  body,  fear  of  the  future,  wonder 
at  the  impossibilities  of  life.  Her  own  greatness — for 
her  love  and  following  obstinate  unselfishness,  without 
religious  prompting  or  self-respect,  as  it  was,  might  be 
called  great — turned  sour  within  her  heart  at  such  a  mo- 
ment. Her  very  virtue  became  as  vinegar.  Mrs.  Brigg 
was  drowned  in  epithets  and  finally  pushed  furiously  out 
into  the  passage.  Cuckoo  turned  from  the  door  to  Jessie 
yelping,  and  directed  a  kick  at  the  little  dog.  Jessie 
wailed,  as  only  a  toy  dog  can,  like  the  "mixture  "  stop 
of  an  organ,  wailed  and  ran  as  one  that  runs  to  meet  an 
unknown  future.  Then  Cuckoo  pursued,  caught  her,  and 
burst  into  tears  over  her.  The  little  creature's  domed 
skull  and  india-rubber  ears  were  wet  with  the  tears  of  her 
mistress.  And  she  whimpered,  too,  but  with  much  relief, 
for  she  was  back  in  her  world  of  Cuckoo's  lap;  and  could 
not  be  quite  unhappy  there.  But  in  what  a  world  was 
Cuckoo! 

It  will  be  said  that  Dr.  Levillier  knew  of  her  circum- 
stances; but  anxiously  kind  and  thoughtful   though  he 


47S  FLAMES 

was,  he  did  not  yet  realize  the  effect  of  his  advice  given 
to  the  lady  of  the  feathers  during  the  drive  on  the  Hamp- 
stead  Heights.  He  had  told  her  to  prove  her  will  by 
doing  the  thing  that  Julian  had  asked  of  her.  But  he  did 
not  know  what  Julian  had  asked.  And  he  did  not  com- 
prehend the  bitter  fruit  that  her  following  of  his  further 
advice  to  keep  from  low  and  loveless  actions  must  bring 
to  the  ripening.  When  he  spoke,  as  the  sun  went  down 
on  London,  he  was  carried  on  by  excitement,  and  was 
thinking  rather  of  the  fate  of  Julian,  the  diablerie  of  Val- 
entine, than  of  the  individual  life  of  the  girl  at  his  side. 
He  was  arming  her  for  the  battle.  But  he  dreamed  of 
weapons,  not  of  rations,  like  many  an  enthusiast.  He 
forgot  that  the  soldier  must  be  fed  as  well  as  armed.  He 
said  to  Cuckoo:  "Fight!  Use  your  woman's  wit;  use 
your  heart ;  wake  up,  and  throw  yourself  into  this  battle. " 
And  she,  filled  with  determination,  and  with  a  puzzled, 
pent  ardour  to  do  something,  did  not  know  what  to  do 
except — starve.  So  she  began  to  starve  for  Julian's  sake, 
and  because  the  doctor  had  fired  her  heart.  He  had  said : 
"  Do  what  Julian  asked  you  to  do,  and  show  Julian  that 
you  have  done  it."  But  something  within  Cuckoo  for- 
bade her  to  fulfil  this  last  injunction.  She  could  give  up 
the  street,  but  an  extraordinary  shyness,  false  shame,  and 
awkwardness  had  so  far  prevented  her  from  letting  Julian 
know  it.  If  he  knew  it,  he  would  understand  what  it 
meant  for  her,  and  would  force  money  on  her,  and  Cuckoo, 
having  once  made  up  her  mind  that  money  and  Julian 
should  never  be  linked  together  in  her  relations  with  him, 
stuck  to  secrecy  on  this  subject  with  her  normal  dull  per- 
tinacity. So  matters  move  slowly  towards  a  deadlock. 
The  lady  of  the  feathers  did  not  neglect  the  pawnshop. 
Her  few  trinkets  went  there  very  soon.  Then  things  that 
were  not  trinkets,  that  green  evening  dress,  for  instance, 
the  imitation  lace,  and  one  day  a  sale  took  place.  Cuckoo 
disposed,  for  an  absurd  sum,  of  her  title  deed,  the  head- 
gear that  had  given  birth  to  her  nickname.  She  was  no 
longer  the  lady  of  the  feathers.  The  hat  that  had  seen 
so  much  of  her  life  reposed  upon  the  head  of  virtue,  and 
knew  Piccadilly  no  more.  But  Julian's  present  remained 
with  her,  and  indeed  came  into  every-day  use.    And  still 


LADY    OF   THE    FEATHERS   STARVES  479 

Jessie  sported  her  yellow  riband.  Later  there  came  a 
terrible  time,  when  the  eyes  of  Cuckoo  —  appraising 
everything  on  which  they  looked — fell  with  that  fateful 
expression,  not  merely  upon  Jessie's  yellow  riband, 
but  upon  Jessie  herself.  But  that  time  was  not  quite 
yet. 

While  Cuckoo  endured  this  fate,  Dr.  Levillier  was  in 
a  perplexity  of  another  kind.  The  first  round  of  that 
battle  had  ended  in  apparent  decisive  defeat  of  Valen- 
tine's accusers.  During  the  evening  the  fortunes  of  war 
had  certainly  wavered  to  the  doctor's  side.  Julian  had 
displayed  sudden  strong  signs  of  an  awakening;  but  the 
sitting  had  thrown  him  back  into  his  dream,  had  pushed 
him  more  firmly  beneath  the  yoke  of  his  master.  The 
doctor  did  not  understand  why,  although  he  recognized 
the  fact;  he  could  not  divine  the  exact  effect  that  disap- 
pointment would  have  upon  sudden  suspicious  eagerness. 
Julian  had  been  waked  to  wonder,  to  observe  Valentine 
for  an  instant  with  new  eyes,  to  look  the  mystery  of  the 
great  change  in  him  in  the  face,  and  know  it  as  a 
mystery.  Yes,  he  had  even  thought  of  Valentine  as 
a  stranger,  and  said  to  himself,  "Where,  then,  is  my 
friend?  "  The  new  Valentine  had  risen  out  of  the  ashes 
of  sleep.  Julian  pressed  forward  the  sitting  as  a  means, 
the  only  one,  of  searching  among  these  ashes.  In  the 
old  days  each  sitting  had  quickened  his  senses  into  a 
strange  life,  as  the  last  sitting  quickened  the  senses  of 
the  doctor.  But  to  Julian  this  last  sitting  brought 
nothing  but  disappointment;  the  thing  which  had  been 
alive  was  dead,  and  so  the  sudden  hope  which  had  come 
with  the  new  wonder  died  too.  He  supposed  that  he 
had  been  the  prey  of  an  absurd  fancy  created  by  the 
idle  words  of  the  doctor,  or  by  an  idiotic  movement  of 
his  mind,  which  had  cried  to  him  on  a  sudden:  "  If  the 
Valentine  you  love  and  revere  is  really  gone  away,  what 
are  you  worshipping  now?"  Now,  in  his  heavy  disap- 
pointment he  thought  of  this  cry  as  a  mad  exclamation, 
and  he  sought  to  drown  all  memory  of  it,  and  every 
memory  in  fresh  vices,  and  in  his  fatal  habit  of  absinthe- 
drinking.  He  lay  down  under  the  yoke  beneath  which 
he  had  previously  wept,  and  so  succeeded  in  going  still 


480  FLAMES 

lower.  So  that  night  Valentine  had  won  his  intended 
triumph,  although  for  a  while  it  had  been  in  jeopardy. 

Doctor  Levillier  was  in  perplexity;  he  had  been 
brought  to  the  very  threshold  of  revelation,  and  then 
thrust  back  into  an  every-day  world  of  thwarted  hopes 
and  broken  ambitions.  But  the  memory  of  magic  was 
still  with  him,  and  gave  him  a  feeling  of  unrest,  and  a 
pertinacity  that  was  not  to  be  without  reward  forever. 
Valentine's  triumph  held  for  the  conqueror  a  poison  seed 
from  which  a  flower  was  to  spring.  The  doctor's  deter- 
mination to  continue  the  fight  was  frustrated  at  this  time 
by  Julian,  rather  than  by  Valentine.  Julian's  disappoint- 
ment plunged  him  in  a  deep  sea  of  indifference,  from 
which  he  declined  to  be  rescued.  The  doctor's  invita- 
tions to  him  remained  unanswered.  If  he  called,  Julian 
was  never  at  home.  Several  times  the  doctor  met  Val- 
entine, who,  with  a  deprecating  smile,  told  him  that 
Julian  was  away  on  some  mad  errand. 

**I  seldom  see  him  now,"  he  even  added  upon  one 
occasion.  "  He  has  gone  beyond  me.  Julian  is  living 
so  fast  that  my  poor  agility  cannot  keep  pace  with  him." 

It  seemed  as  if  the  whole  affair  was  going  completely 
out  of  the  doctor's  knowledge,  and  that  even  Cuckoo 
had  no  longer  any  power  of  attraction  for  Julian.  The 
doctor  wrote  to  her  and  received  an  ill-spelt  answer, 
telling  him  that  Julian  had  not  been  near  her  since  the 
last  night  of  the  year.  In  this  event  the  doctor's  only 
hope  lay  in  keeping  closely  in  touch  with  Valentine.  To 
do  this  proved  an  easy  matter.  Valentine  responded 
readily  to  his  invitations,  asked  him  out  in  return,  seemed 
glad  to  be  with  him.  The  doctor  believed  he  read  the 
reason  of  this  joy  in  Valentine's  anxiety  to  prove  the 
depth  of  Julian's  degradation.  He  had  now  begun  to 
play  devilishly  upon  a  pathetic  stop,  and  sought  every 
occasion  to  descant  upon  the  social  ruin  that  was  over- 
taking Julian,  and  his  deep  concern  in  the  matter.  This 
hypocrisy  was  so  transparent  and  so  offensive  that  there 
were  moments  when  it  stank  in  the  doctor's  nostrils,  and 
he  could  scarcely  repress  his  horror  and  disgust.  Yet  to 
show  them  would  be  not  only  impolitic,  but  would  only 
add  fuel  to  the  flames  of  Valentine's  pyre  of  triumph. 


LADY   OF  THE    FEATHERS   STARVES  481 

So  the  doctor,  too,  sought  to  play  his  part,  and  never 
wearied  in  seeking  Julian,  although  his  quest  was  in  vain. 
From  Valentine  he  gathered  that  Julian  was  now  dropped 
even  by  the  gay  world ;  that  his  clubs  looked  askance  at 
him ;  that  men  began  to  shun  him,  and  to  whisper  against 
him. 

**  The  stone  is  going  down  in  the  sea,"  Valentine  said. 

"Who  threw  it  into  the  sea?"  the  doctor  asked. 
*'Tell  me  that." 

Valentine  shrugged  whimsical  shoulders. 

"Fate,  I  suppose,"  he  answered.  "Fate  is  a  mis- 
chievous boy,  and  is  always  throwing  stones.  Is  the 
lady  of  the  feathers  disconsolate?  " 

The  doctor  did  not  trust  himself  to  reply,  but  was 
silent,  plotting  another  meeting  to  sit.  For  he  had  be- 
gun, still  magic-bound  perhaps,  to  divine  some  possible 
salvation  in  that  act  which  he  had  once  condemned,  led, 
as  he  thought,  by  knowledge  and  by  experience,  of  the 
nervous  system  forsooth!  Now  he  was  led  unscientifi- 
cally by  pure  feeling,  like  a  child  by  a  warm,  close  hand. 
The  instinct  that  had  guided  Cuckoo  seemed  to  stretch 
out  fingers  to  him.  He  must  respond.  But  how  to 
reach  Julian?  While  he  strove  to  solve  this  problem  it 
was  solved  for  him  in  a  manner  utterly  surprising  to  him, 
although  engineered  by  words  of  his. 

Cuckoo  wrought  a  strange  work  with  the  skeleton 
hands  of  hunger  and  of  pain. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  SELLING  OF  JESSIE 

One  chill  morning  of  earliest  February,  a  stirring  of 
Jessie  at  the  foot  of  her  bed  wakened  Cuckoo  from  a 
short  and  uneasy  sleep.  She  opened  her  eyes  to  the  faint 
light  that  filtered  through  the  green  Venetian  blind. 
Jessie  moved  again,  slowly  rotating  like  a  drowsy  top, 
then  suddenly  dropped  into  the  warm  centre  of  a  nest  of 
bedclothes,  breathing  a  big  dog-sigh  of  satisfaction  that 
shook  her  tiny  frame.  She  slept.  But  she  had  wakened 
her  mistress,  who  lay  with  her  head  resting  on  one  hand, 
deep  in  thought  while  the  day  grew  outside.  Cuckoo, 
having  directed  her  steps  down  a  blind-alley  had,  not 
unnaturally,  reached  a  dead-wall,  blotting  out  the  hori- 
zon. Lying  there,  she  faced  it.  She  stared  at  the  wall, 
and  the  wall  seemed  to  stare  back  at  her.  Perhaps  for 
that  reason  a  dull  blankness  flowed  over  and  filled  her 
mind,  and  made  her  widely  opened  eyes  almost  as  ex- 
pressionless as  the  eyes  of  a  corpse.  For  a  long  time 
she  lay  in  this  alive  stupor.  Then  Jessie  stirred  again, 
and  Cuckoo,  as  she  had  been  before  spurred  into  wake- 
fulness, was  stirred  into  thoughtfulness.  She  began  to 
pass  the  near  past,  the  present,  eventually  the  future,  in 
review.  The  past  was  a  crescendo,  solitude  growing 
louder  each  night,  poverty  growing  louder,  obstinacy 
growing  louder,  Mrs.  Brigg  growing  louder.  What  an 
orchestra!  Cuckoo  had  not  seen  Julian  once.  She  had 
seen  the  doctor,  to  be  told  of  his  baffled  efforts,  of 
Julian's  escape  from  all  his  friends,  of  Valentine's  dec- 
laration of  the  stone  going  down  in  the  sea,  of  utter 
deadlock,  utter  stagnation.  For  the  doctor  treated 
Cuckoo  frankly  as  a  brave  woman,  not  deceitfully  as  a 
timid  child  to  be  buoyed  on  the  waves  of  ill-circum- 
stances with  gas-filled  bladders.     Cuckoo  knew  the  worst 

482 


THE    SELLING   OF  JESSIE  483 

of  things,  and  by  the  knowledge  was  confirmed  in  her 
mule's  attitude  which  so  weighed  upon  Mrs.  Brigg.  Her 
hands  were  tied  in  every  direction  except  one.  She 
could  only  dumbly  prove  that  Valentine  was  wrong;  that 
her  will  was  not  dead,  by  exercising  it  to  the  detriment 
of  her  worldly  situation.  Doggedly  then  she  put  her 
whole  past  behind  her,  despite  the  ever-increasing  curses 
of  the  landlady.  She  had  given  up  her  pilgrimages  in 
search  of  honest  work.  They  were  too  hopeless.  She 
had  pawned  everything  she  could  pawn,  and  sold  every 
trifle  that  was  saleable.  Even  Jessie's  broad  band  of 
yellow  satin  had  been  included  in  a  heterogeneous  parcel 
of  odds  and  ends  purchased  by  a  phlegmatic  German 
with  eyes  like  marbles  and  the  manner  of  a  stone  image. 
Living  less  and  less  well,  doing  without  fires,  sitting 
often  in  the  dark  at  night  to  save  the  expense  of  gas. 
Cuckoo  had  managed  to  pay  her  rent  until  a  week  ago. 
Then  money  had  failed,  and  the  great  earthquake  had 
at  length  tossed  and  swallowed  the  wretched  Mrs.  Brigg. 
The  scene  had  been  tropical.  Mrs.  Brigg  was  really 
moved  to  the  very  depths  of  her  being.  For  days  she 
had  been,  as  it  were,  eating  and  drinking  apprehension. 
Now  apprehension  choked  her.  She  was  shot  up  in  the 
air  by  the  cannon  of  climax.  Limbs  and  mind  were  in 
the  extreme  of  commotion.  From  her  point  of  view  it 
must  be  acknowledged  that  the  situation  was  unduly  ex- 
asperating. For  Cuckoo  would  give  no  reason  whatever 
for  her  reiterated  formula  of  refusal  to  earn  any  money. 
And  now  she  could  not  pay  her  week's  rent,  plunging 
Mrs.  Brigg  into  the  further  circle  of  an  itiferno,  and  yet 
sat  within  doors  day  after  day.  Mrs.  Brigg  approached 
apoplexy  by  way  of  persuasion,  was  by  turns  pathetic 
and  paralytic  with  passion.  She  coaxed  with  the  ardour 
of  an  executioner  inveigling  the  victim's  neck  to  the 
noose  and  in  haste  to  be  off  to  breakfast.  She  threat- 
ened like  Jove  in  curl-papers.     Cuckoo  was  inexorable. 

"  Then  out  you  go!  "  said  Mrs.  Brigg  at  last.  "  Out 
of  my  house  you  pack,  you — "  Nameless  words  fol- 
lowed. 

Cuckoo  got  up  from  her  chair  with  no  show  of  emotion 
and  moved  towards  her  bedroom  stonily  to  pack  her  box. 


484  FLAMES    . 

She  did  n't  care.  She  was  in  a  mood  to  lie  down  in  the 
gutter  and  wait  the  last  blow  of  Fate,  living  only  in  her 
one  obstinate  determination  to  do  what  the  doctor  had 
told  her,  the  one  thing  Julian  had  asked  of  her.  She 
did  not  any  longer  war  with  words  against  the  purple  and 
hard-breathing  landlady.  And  her  silence  and  her  move- 
ment of  obedience  awed  Mrs.  Brigg  for  the  moment  into 
another  mood.  She  shuffled  after  Cuckoo  into  the  bed- 
room. 

"Eh?  What  is  it?  "  she  ejaculated.  "Whatareyou 
a-doing  of?  " 

*'  Going,"  Cuckoo  threw  at  her. 

"Now?" 

"Yes.  " 

"Where  to?" 

No  answer.  Cuckoo  was  thrusting  the  few  things 
still  left  to  her  into  the  only  box  she  now  possessed  in 
the  world.  Mrs.  Brigg  stood  in  the  folding  doorway 
watching,  and  making  mouths,  as  is  the  fashion  of  the 
elderly  when  emotional. 

"What  are  you  going  for?"  she  said  presently,  as 
Cuckoo,  bending  down,  stuffed  a  white  petticoat  into  the 
depths. 

"Can't  pay,"  snarled  Cuckoo. 

"It  don't  matter  —  for  a  day  or  two,"  said  Mrs. 
Brigg,  reluctantly. 

She  stumped  downstairs,  torn  by  conflicting  emotions. 
She  had  got  accustomed  to  Cuckoo,  and  then  both 
Julian  and  Valentine,  Cuckoo's  visitors,  had  taught  her 
the  colour  of  the  British  sovereign.  They  had  not 
been  near  400  lately,  but  they  might  come  again. 
And  then  Doctor  Levillier.  Cuckoo  had  some  fine 
friends,  who  would  surely  do  something  for  her.  Mrs. 
Brigg  had  no  other  possible  lodger  in  her  eye.  On  the 
whole,  prudence  dictated  a  day  or  two's  patience,  just  a 
day  or  two,  or  a  week's,  not  more,  not  a  moment  more. 
Thus  it  came  about  that  Cuckoo  had  now  been  another 
week  beneath  the  roof  of  Mrs.  Brigg  without  paying  hard 
cash  for  the  asylum.  The  previous  evening  the  landlady 
had  burst  out  again  into  fury,  refusing  to  get  in  any 
more  food  for  Cuckoo,  and  demanding  the   fortnight's 


THE   SELLING   OF  JESSIE  485 

rent.  She  had  even,  carried  away  by  cupidity  and 
passion,  striven  to  drive  Cuckoo  out  to  her  night's  work. 
A  physical  struggle  had  taken  place  between  them, 
ending  in  the  landlady's  hysterics.  Other  lodgers  had 
been  drawn  by  the  noise  from  their  floors  to  witness  the 
row.  Two  of  them  had  come  on  the  scene  accompanied 
by  men,  and  to  them  Mrs.  Brigg  had  shrieked  her 
wrongs  and  explanations  of  this  swindling  virtue  of  a 
woman  who  had  formerly  paid  her  way  honestly  from  the 
street.  The  lodgers  and  their  men  had  provided  an 
accompaniment  of  jeering  laughter  to  the  Brigg  solo,  and 
Cuckoo,  her  clothes  nearly  torn  from  her  back,  had  flung 
at  last  into  her  sitting-room  and  locked  the  door.  That 
was  last  night  —  the  past  which  she  now  reviewed  in  the 
morning  twilight.  What  was  she  to  do?  She  was  with- 
out food.  She  was  in  debt,  must  leave  Mrs.  Brigg,  no 
doubt,  but  must  pay  her  first,  had  no  means  to  pay  for 
another  lodging.  She  might  apply  to  Doctor  Levillier. 
What  he.d  her  back  from  taking  that  road  was  mainly 
this.  She  had  the  dumb  desire  to  make  a  sacrifice  for 
Julian,  and  the  doctor  had  given  her  the  idea  of  the  only 
sacrifice  she  could  make  —  retention  of  herself  from  the 
degradation  that  kept  her  free  of  debt.  If  she  asked 
the  doctor  to  pay  the  expenses  of  the  sacrifice,  whose 
would  it  be?  His,  not  hers.  So  there  was  no  banker  in 
the  world  for  Cuckoo.  The  dead-wall  faced  her.  The 
horizon  was  shut  out.  She  lay  there  and  tried  to  think 
—  and  tried  to  think.  How  to  get  some  money?  Some- 
thing—  the  devil  perhaps  —  prompted  the  sleeping 
Jessie  to  stir  again  at  the  bottom  of  the  bed.  Cuckoo 
felt  the  little  dog's  back  shift  against  her  stretched-out 
toes,  and  suddenly  a  bitter  flood  of  red  ran  over  her 
thin,  half-starved  face,  and  she  hid  it  in  the  tumbled 
pillow,  pressing  it  down.  The  movement  was  the 
attempted  physical  negation  of  an  abominable,  treacher- 
ous thought  which  had  just  stabbed  her  mind.  How 
could  it  have  come  to  her,  when  she  hated  it  so?  She 
burrowed  further  into  the  pillow,  at  the  same  time 
caressing  the  back  of  Jessie  with  little  movements  of  her 
toes.  Horrible,  horrible  thought!  It  brought  tears 
which  stained  the  pillow.     It  brought  a  hard  beating  of 


486  FLAMES 

the  heart.  And  these  manifestations  showed  plainly 
that  Cuckoo  had  not  dismissed  it  yet.  She  tried  to 
dismiss  it,  shutting  her  eyes  up  tightly,  shaking  her  head 
at  the  black,  venomous  thing.  But  it  stayed  and  grew 
larger  and  more  dominant.  Then  she  took  her  head 
from  the  pillow,  faced  it,  and  examined  it.  It  was  a 
clear-cut,  definite  thought  now,  perfectly  finished,  coldly 
complete. 

Jessie  was  embodied  money,  an  embodied  small  sum 
of  money. 

Long  ago  Cuckoo  had  said  to  Julian  with  pride: 

"She's  a  show-dog.  I  wouldn't  part  with  her  for 
nuts." 

Now  she  remembered  those  words,  and  knew,  could 
not  help  knowing,  that  a  show-dog  was  worth  more  than 
nuts.  At  that  moment  she  wished  Jessie  were  worthless. 
Then  the  sting  would  be  drawn  from  her  horrible 
thought.  Meanwhile  Jessie  slept  calmly  on,  warm  and 
cosey. 

Cuckoo  was  cold  and  trembling.  She  knew  that  she 
was  on  the  verge  of  starvation.  The  doctor  had  said 
that  one  day  she  could  help  Julian,  only  she.  So  she 
must  not  starve.  Love  alone  would  not  let  her  do  that. 
Between  her  and  starvation  lay  Jessie,  curved  in  sleep, 
unconscious  that  her  small  future  was  being  debated  with 
tears  and  with  horror. 

Long  ago  the  little  dog  had  entered  Cuckoo's  heart 
to  be  cherished  there.  Many  wretched  London  women 
own  such  a  little  dog,  to  whom  they  cling  with  a  passion 
such  as  more  fortunate  women  lavish  upon  their  chil- 
dren. A  great  many  subtleties  combine  to  elevate 
companions  with  tails  to  the  best  thrones  the  poor,  the 
wicked,  and  the  deserted  can  give  them.  A  dog  has 
such  a  rich  nature  to  give  to  the  woman  who  is  poor,  so 
much  innocence  at  hand  for  the  woman  who  is  wicked, 
such  completeness  of  attachment  ready  for  the  woman 
who  is  lonely.  It  is  so  beautifully  humble  upon  its 
throne,  abased  in  its  own  eyes  before  the  shrine  of  its 
mistress,  on  whom  it  depends  entirely  for  all  its  happi- 
ness. A  little  king,  perhaps,  it  has  the  pretty  manners 
of  a  little  servitor.     And  even  when  it  presumes  to  be 


THE    SELLING   OF  JESSIE  4S7 

determined  in  the  expressed  desire  for  the  dryness  of  a 
biscuit  or  the  warmth  of  a  lap,  with  how  small  a  word  or 
glance  can  it  be  laid  upon  its  back,  in  the  abject  renun- 
ciation of  every  pretension,  anxious  only  for  the  forgive- 
ness that  nobody  with  a  touch  of  tenderness  could 
withhold.  Ah,  there  is  much  to  be  thankful  for  in  a 
companion  with  a  tail!  Jessie  had  winning  ways,  the 
deep  heart  of  a  dog.  A  toy  dog  she  was,  no  doubt,  but 
hers  was  no  toy  nature.  Cuckoo  could  not  have  shed 
such  tears  as  those  she  now  shed  over  any  toy.  For  she 
began  to  cry  weakly  at  the  mere  thought  that  had  come 
to  her,  although  it  was  not  yet  become  a  resolve.  Life 
with  Jessie  had  been  very  sordid,  very  sad.  What  would 
life  be  without  her?  What  would  such  a  morning  as  this 
be,  for  instance?  Cuckoo's  imagination  set  tempestu- 
ously to  work,  with  physical  aids — such  as  the  following. 
She  drew  away  her  feet  from  the  bottom  of  the  bed,  where 
they  touched  the  little  dog's  back.  Doing  this  she  said 
to  herself,  "Now,  Jessie  is  gone. "  Curled  up,  she  set 
herself  to  realize  the  lie.  And  perhaps  she  might  have 
succeeded  thoroughly  in  the  sad  attempt  had  not  Jessie, 
in  sleep  missing  the  contact  of  her  mistress,  wriggled 
lazily  on  her  side  up  the  bed  after  Cuckoo's  feet,  dis- 
covering which,  she  again  composed  herself  to  slumber. 
The  renunciation  was  not  to  be  complete  in  imagination. 
Jessie's  love,  when  present,  was  too  frustrating.  And 
Cuckoo,  casting  away  her  horrible  thought  in  a  sort  of 
hasty  panic,  caught  her  companion  with  a  tail  in  her 
arms,  and  made  her  rest  beside  her,  close,  close.  Jessie 
was  well  content,  but  still  sleepy.  She  reposed  her  tiny 
head  upon  the  pillow,  lengthened  herself  between  the 
sheets  and  dreamed  again.  And  while  she  dreamed,  the 
black  thought  about  her  came  back  to  Cuckoo.  It  was 
assertive,  and  Cuckoo  began  to  fear  it.  The  fear  of  a 
thought  is  a  horrible  thing;  sometimes  it  is  worse  than 
the  fear  of  death.  This  one  made  Cuckoo  think  herself 
more  cruel  than  any  woman  since  the  world  began. 
Yet  she  could  not  exorcise  it.  On  the  contrary,  she 
grew  familiar  with  it  as  the  day  marched  on,  until  it  put 
on  a  fatal  expression  of  duty.  All  that  day  she  revolved 
it.     Mrs.  Brigg  attacked  her  again.     Food  was  lacking. 


488  FLAMES 

Cuckoo's  case  became  desperate.  She  turned  over 
carefully  all  her  few  remaining  possessions  to  see  if  there 
was  any  inanimate  thing  that  she  had  omitted  to  turn 
into  money.  Jessie,  poor  innocent,  assisted  with  anima- 
tion at  the  forlorn  inventory,  nestling  among  the  tumbled 
garments,  leaping  on  and  off  the  bed.  Her  ingenuous 
nature  supposed  some  odd  game  to  be  in  progress,  and 
was  anxious  to  play  a  principal  and  effective  part  in  it. 
^et  she  was  quieted  by  the  look  Cuckoo  cast  upon  her 
when  the  wardrobe  had  been  passed  in  review  and  no 
saleable  thing  was  to  be  found.  She  shrank  into  a 
corner,  ready  for  whimpering.  That  night  Cuckoo  did 
not  sleep,  and  through  all  the  long  hours  she  held  Jessie 
in  her  arms,  and  heard,  as  so  often  before,  the  regular 
breathing  of  this  little  companion  of  hers.  And  each 
drawn  breath  pierced  her  heart. 

Next  morning  she  got  up  early.  She  was  faint  with 
hunger  and  with  a  resolve  that  siie  had  made.  She  dressed 
herself,  then  carried  Jessie  to  the  flannel-lined  basket, 
put  her  into  it  and  kissed  her. 

"Go  bials,"  she  said,  with  a  raised  finger.  "Go 
bials." 

Jessie  winked  her  eyes  pathetically,  her  chin  resting 
on  the  basket  edge.  Cuckoo  went  out  into  the  passage 
and  called  down  to  Mrs.  Brigg. 

"What  is  it?"  cried  Hades. 

"I  'm  going  to  get  some  money." 

Mrs.  Brigg  ran  out. 

"Money!"  she  said  in  a  keen  treble.  "Where  are 
you  going  to  git  it?  " 

"Never  you  mind,"  said  Cuckoo,  in  a  dull  voice. 

She  turned  from  Mrs.  Brigg's  flooding  ejaculations 
and  was  gone.  In  her  peregrinations  about  London  she 
had  sometimes  encountered  in  a  certain  thoroughfare  a 
broad  old  man  with  a  face  marked  with  small-pox,  who 
wore  a  fur  cap  and  leggings.  This  individual  conveyed 
upon  his  thickest  person  certain  clinging  rats,  which 
crawled  about  him  in  the  public  view  while  he  walked, 
and  he  led  in  strings  three  or  four  terriers,  sometimes  a 
pup  or  two.  Cuckoo  had  seen  him  more  than  once  in 
conversation  with  some  young  swell,  even  with  gaily- 


THE    SELLING   OF  JESSIE  489 

dressed  women,  had  noticed  that  his  terriers  here  to-day 
were  often  gone  to-morrow,  replaced  by  other  dogs,  pugs 
perhaps,  or  a  waddling,  bow-legged  dachshund.  She 
drew  her  own  conclusions.  And  she  had  seen  that  the 
old  man's  eyes,  in  his  poacher  face,  were  kindly,  that  his 
trotting  dogs  often  aimed  their  sharp,  or  blunt,  noses  at 
his  hands  and  seemed  to  claim  his  notice.  Her  morning 
errand  was  to  him. 

She  walked  a  long  time  in  search  of  him,  trembling 
with  the  fear  of  finding  him,  inconsistently.  Her  mind, 
reacting  on  her  ill-fed  body,  planted  a  crawling  weari- 
ness there,  and  at  last  she  had  to  stop  and  examine  her 
pockets.  She  came  upon  two  or  three  pence,  went  into 
a  shop,  bought  a  bun,  and  ate  it  sitting  by  a  marble- 
topped  table.  It  nearly  choked  her.  Yet  she  knew  she 
needed  it  badly.  With  one  penny  the  less  she  resumed 
her  pilgrimage.  But  nowhere  could  she  see  the  old  man 
in  his  leggings,  and  suddenly  a  sort  of  joyful  spasm  shook 
her  superstitiously.  Fate  opposed  her  cruel  resolution. 
In  a  rush  of  eager  contrition  she  started  for  home,  walk- 
ing as  quickly  as  her  abnormal  fatigue  would  allow  her. 
She  had  left  the  street  in  which  the  old  man  generally 
walked,  and  took  care,  as  she  turned  its  corner,  not  to 
cast  one  glance  behind  her.  She  passed  through  the 
next  street,  and  the  next,  and  was  far  away  from  his 
neighbourhood,  rejoicing,  when  suddenly  she  saw  him 
coming  straight  towards  her  slowly,  the  rats  resting 
on  his  shoulders,  various  small  dogs  in  strings  pattering 
on  each  side  of  him. 

Cuckoo's  heart  gave  a  great  thump,  and  then  for  an 
appreciable  fragment  of  time  stopped  beating.  She  mut- 
tered a  bad  word  under  her  breath  and  had  an  impulse  to 
flee  as  from  an  enemy.  She  did  not  flee,  but  stood  still 
like  one  condemned,  while  the  old  man  stolidly  ap- 
proached with  his  menagerie.  When  he  reached  her  she 
lifted  her  head  and  looked  him  in  the  face.  The  little 
dogs  were  jumping  to  reach  his  hands.  Evidently  they 
loved  him. 

"  I  say,"  Cuckoo  said  huskily. 

The  old  gentleman  stopped,  lifted  a  rat  from  his 
shoulder,  placed  it  on  his  breast,  like  a  man  who  arranged 


49©  FLAMES 

his  necktie,  clicked  his  tongue  against  his  teeth,  and 
remarked : 

"  Parding,  lydy. " 

Cuckoo  swallowed.  She  felt  as  if  she  had  a  ball  in 
her  throat  shifting  up  and  down. 

"  I  say,"  she  repeated.     "You  buy  toy  dogs,  eh?  " 

'*I  buys  'em  and  I  sells  'em,"  answered  the  old  man, 
with  a  large  accent  on  the  conjunction.  "Buys  'em  dear 
and  sells  'em  cheap.    There  'sa  wyto  mike  a  living,lydy!" 

His  small  eyes  twinkled  with  humour  as  he  spoke. 

Cuckoo  swallowed  again.  The  ball  in  her  throat  was 
getting  larger. 

" Want  to  buy  one  this  morning?"  she  asked.  "A 
show  little  dog,  eh?  " 

She  choked. 

The  old  man  did  not  appear  to  notice  it.  He  looked 
at  her  with  sharp  consideration. 

*'Oh,  you  means  selling!  "  he  remarked.  "Where  is 
it,  then?" 

"What?" 

"  The  show  little  dawg?  " 

Cuckoo  gulped  out  her  address.  All  this  time  the  old 
man  had  been  summing  her  up,  and  drawing  his  own  con- 
clusions from  her  thin  figure  and  haggard  face.  He 
scented  a  possible  bargain. 

"Trot  along,  lydy,"  he  said,  turning  on  his  heels 
with  all  his  little  dogs  in  commotion.  "  Trot  along. 
I  'm  with  yer. " 

Cuckoo  heard  muffled  drums  of  a  dead-march  as  she 
walked.  She,  who  had  lived  a  life  so  shameless,  shivered 
with  shame  at  the  thought  of  what  she  was  going  to  do. 
Her  treachery  laid  her  out  in  its  winding-sheet.  The  old 
man  tried  to  entertain  her,  as  they  went,  by  chatting 
about  his  profession,  declaiming  the  merits  of  his  rats, 
and  spreading  before  her  mind  a  verbal  panorama  of  the 
canine  life  that  had  defiled  through  his  changeful  exist- 
ence. Cuckoo  did  not  hear  a  word  —  they  turned  into 
the  Marylebone  Road.  She  walked  slower  and  slower, 
yet  never  had  the  street  in  which  she  lived  seemed  so 
short.  At  length  the  iron  gate  of  number  400  was 
reached.     Cuckoo  stopped. 


THE    SELLING   OF  JESSIE  491 

**  In  'ere,  lydy?  "  said  the  old  man. 

She  nodded,  unable  to  speak.  He  turned  in  with  his 
crowd  of  pattering  dogs,  and  proceeded  jauntily  up  the 
narrow  path.  Cuckoo  followed  slowly  and  with  a  furtive 
step.  She  longed  to  open  the  front  door,  let  him  in,  and 
then  run  away  herself.  Anywhere,  anywhere,  only  to 
be  away,  out  of  sight  and  hearing  of  the  cruel  scene 
that  was  coming. 

Now  they  were  on  the  doorstep.  The  old  man  waited. 
She  fumbled  for  her  latchkey,  found  it,  thrust  it  into  the 
door.  Instantly  the  shrill  bark  of  Jessie  was  heard. 
Cuckoo's  guilty  shining  eyes  met  the  twinkling  eyes  of 
the  old  man. 

"That  she  a-barkin'? "  he  inquired,  with  a  profes- 
sional air. 

Cuckoo  nodded  again. 

"  A  nice  little  pype, "  he  rejoined.    '*  This  wy,  is  it?  *' 

The  patter  of  feet  in  the  oil-clothed  passage  roused 
Jessie  to  a  frenzied  excitement.  When  the  two  opened 
the  door  of  the  sitting-room,  the  little  creature,  planted 
tree-like  upon  her  four  tiny  feet,  was  barking  her  dog 
life  into  the  air.  Cuckoo,  entering  first,  snatched  her 
up  and  gave  her  a  sudden,  vehement  kiss. 

It  was  good-bye. 

Then  she  turned  and  faced  the  old  man,  who  had  paused 
in  the  doorway.  She  held  Jessie  silently  towards  him. 
Transferring  the  strings  held  in  his  right  hand  to  his  left, 
he  took  the  wriggling  dog  from  Cuckoo,  lifted  her  up 
and  down  as  if  considering  her  weight,  ran  his  eyes  over 
her  points  with  the  quick  decision  of  knowledge. 

"  'Ardly  a  show  dawg,  lydy,"  he  said. 

Cuckoo  flamed  at  him. 

"She  is,  she  is,"  she  cried  vehemently,  all  her 
passion  trying  to  find  a  vent  in  the  words.  "You  shan't 
have  her,  you  shan't  have  her,  you  shan't  if —  " 

"  Neow,  neow;  I  ain't  syingnothink  ag'in  'er, "  he  in- 
terposed. "  She 's  a  pretty  dawg,  a  very  pretty  dawg. 
'Ow  much  do  yer  sy,  lydy?  " 

Cuckoo  sickened.  She  looked  awaj*  She  could  not 
have  met  the  eyes  of  Jessie  at  that  moment. 


492  FLAMES 

**  'Ow  much,  then? "  repeated  the  old  man,  still 
weighing  the  whining  Jessie  up  and  down. 

"I  dunno;  you  say." 

The  old  man  mentioned  a  price.  It  was  bigger  than 
Cuckoo  had  expected.  She  nodded,  moving  her  tongue 
across  her  lips.  Then  she  looked  away  out  of  the  win- 
dow.    She  heard  the  chink  of  money. 

"  Put  it  on  the  table,"  she  murmured. 

He  did  so,  looking  steadily  at  her. 

"You  feels  the  parting,  lydy, "  he  began.  **Very 
nat'ral,  very.     I  knows  what  it  is." 

He  extended  Jessie,  now  whining  furiously,  towards 
Cuckoo. 

"  Want  to  sy  good-bye,  lydy?  "  he  said. 

Cuckoo  shook  her  head.  The  old  man  popped  Jessie 
into  one  of  the  capacious  side-pockets  of  his  coat  and 
buttoned  the  flap  down. 

*'  Mornin',  lydy,"  he  said,  turning  towards  the  door. 

Cuckoo  made  no  reply.  Her  chest  was  heaving  and 
her  lips  were  working.  The  old  man  went  out.  Cuckoo 
heard  the  pattering  feet  of  the  little  army  of  dogs  on 
the  oilcloth  of  the  passage.  The  hall  door  opened 
and  shut.  A  pause.  The  iron  gate  clicked.  She  had 
never  moved.  The  money  lay  on  the  table.  At  last 
Cuckoo  went  out  into  the  passage,  and  called  in  a  strange 
voice : 

"  Mrs.   Brigg." 

The  landlady  came  with  hasty  alacrity. 

"Come  here,"  said  Cuckoo,  leading  the  way  into  the 
sitting-room.      "  There  —  there  's  some  money  for  you. " 

Mrs.  Brigg  pounced  on  it  with  a  vulture's  eagerness. 

"  'Owever  did  yer —      she  began. 

But  Cuckoo  had  rushed  into  the  bedroom.  The  land- 
lady stood  with  the  money  in  her  hand,  and  heard  the 
key  turned  in  the  lock  of  the  door. 


CHAPTER   VII 

A  MEETING  OF  STARVATION  AND  EXCESS 

Now  an  awful  loneliness,  like  the  loneliness  of  the 
grave,  fell  round  Cuckoo.  Like  Judas,  she  could  have 
gone  out  and  hanged  herself,  but  for  one  thing,  the  love 
in  her  heart  that  seemed  so  useless.  In  her  muddled, 
illogical  way,  and  to  stifle  gnawing  thoughts  of  the 
betrayed  Jessie,  she  dwelt  upon  this  love  of  hers  for 
Julian.  What  had  it  ever  brought  her?  What  had  it 
brought  him?  To  her  it  had  given  many  sorrows,  humil- 
iations. She  remembered  them  one  by  one,  and  they 
looked  at  her  like  ghosts.  Her  dawning  recognition  of 
her  own  degradation  never  yet  come  to  surmise;  her 
tearing  jealousy  when  Julian  went  out  to  do  as  other 
men  did,  preceded  by  and  linked  with  the  knowledge  of 
that  dreary  incident  in  which  she  played  the  part  of 
accomplice,  that  incident  which  she  always  believed  had 
started  him  on  his  journey  to  destruction;  her  acquaint- 
ance with  Valentine  and  the  arrows  planted  in  her  heart 
by  him;  her  despair  when  she  learned  from  him  her  own 
impotence;  not  yet  counterbalanced  by  full  trust  in  her- 
self or  in  her  power  for  good,  despite  the  faith  of  the 
doctor;  her  vision  of  the  constantly  falling  Julian,  of 
the  stone  going  down  in  the  deep  sea;  her  desperate 
adherence  to  the  doctor's  request  to  prove  her  will, 
rewarded  now  by  an  apparently  useless  starvation,  and  by 
this  treacherous  sale  of  Jessie,  her  truest,  trustiest  friend. 
Cuckoo  reviewed  these  ghosts,  and  no  longer  prayed,  but 
cursed.  So  long  as  she  had  Jessie  —  she  knew  it  now  — 
she  had  never  been  really  quite  hopeless,  often  as  she 
had  thought  herself  hopeless.  She  had  never  even  been 
utterly  without  self-respect,  because  Jessie  had  always 
deeply  respected  her  and  had  thus  given  her  little 
moments  of    clean  and  cheering  confidence.     And  she 

493 


494  FLAMES 

had  never  been  absolutely  alone.  Now  she  was  alone, 
and  felt  like  Judas,  a  betrayer.  By  turns  she  thought  of 
Julian  lost  and  of  Jessie  sold  to  strange  hands,  strange 
hearts,  in  a  cruel  and  a  bitter  world.  But  even  now  she 
did  not  think  much  or  often  of  herself,  for  Cuckoo  was 
no  egotist.  Her  very  lack  of  egotism  must  have  been 
the  despair  of  any  good  woman  trying  to  rescue  her. 
She  sat  at  home  and  starved  and  betrayed  now,  not 
because  her  egoism  shrank  from  the  touch  of  the  men  of 
the  street,  not  because  she  had  any  idea  of  the  great 
duty  a  woman  owes  to  herself  —  to  keep  herself  pure  — 
but  simply  moved  by  the  dogged  determination  to  do 
something  for  Julian.  Were  Julian  dead  Cuckoo  would 
have  gone  out  into  Piccadilly  again  as  of  old,  and  earned 
the  rent  for  Mrs.  Brigg,  and  food  for  herself,  and  a 
sovereign  or  two  to  buy  back  Jessie.  The  circumstances 
of  her  life  had  stuffed  cotton  wool  into  the  ears  of  her 
soul  and  rendered  it  deaf  to  the  voices  that  govern  good 
women.  Cuckoo  was  pathetically  incomprehensible  to 
most  people,  because  she  was  pathetically  twisted  in 
mind.  But  her  heart  grew  straight  and  surely  towards 
heaven. 

The  sale  of  Jessie  had  brought  in  enough  money  to 
keep  Mrs.  Brigg  quiet  for  a  little  while,  but  not  enough 
to  satisfy  her  claim  against  Cuckoo,  or  to  give  Cuckoo 
food.  It  went  as  an  instalment  towards  the  rent.  Now 
the  landlady  began  to  clamour  again,  and  Cuckoo  was 
literally  starving.  One  night  her  despair  reached  a 
point  of  cruelty  which  drove  her  out  into  the  street,  not 
for  the  old  reason,  not  at  all  for  that.  Cuckoo  was 
sheathed  in  armour  from  head  to  foot  against  sin  and  its 
wages.  Her  obstinacy  seemed  to  her  the  only  thing 
that  really  lived  in  her  miserable  body,  her  miserable 
soul.  It  was  surely  obstinacy  which  pulsed  in  her  heart, 
which  shone  in  her  hollow  eyes,  tingled  in  her  tired 
limbs,  flushed  her  thin  cheeks  with  blood,  gave  her  mind 
a  thought,  her  will  the  impetus  to  mark  time  in  this 
desolation.  Cuckoo  was  like  a  hollow  shell  containing 
the  everlasting  murmur,  "I'll  starve  —  for  him." 
Whether  her  starvation  was  useless  or  not  did  not  con- 
cern her  at  this  moment.     She  no  longer  even  saw  those 


STARVATION   AND   EXCESS  495 

ghosts.  She  seemed  blind  and  deaf  and  dull  in  a  fashion, 
yet  driven  by  an  active  despair.  Had  Jessie  been  with 
her  still,  she  could  have  stayed  within  doors.  The  little 
dog's  faint  and  regular  breathing,  her  occasional  rust- 
ling movements,  had  made  just  enough  music  to  keep 
Cuckoo  still  faintly  singing  even  when  her  heart  was 
saddest.  Now  her  room  and  her  life  were  empty  of  all 
song,  and  Jessie's  untenanted  basket  —  in  which  the  red 
flannel  seemed  to  Cuckoo  like  blood  —  was  a  spectre 
and  a  vision  of  hell. 

So,  on  this  night.  Cuckoo  put  on  her  hat  and  jacket. 
She  meant  to  go  out,  to  walk  anywhere,  just  to  move,  to 
be  in  the  open  air.  As  she  went  into  the  passage  she 
ran  against  Mrs.  Brigg.  The  gas-jet  was  alight,  and 
the  landlady  could  see  how  she  was  dressed.  Suddenly 
Mrs.  Brigg  fell  on  Cuckoo  and  began  slobbering  her 
with  kisses. 

The  old  wretch  actually  began  to  whimper.  She  had 
been  sore  tried,  and  must  have  had  a  fragment  of  affec- 
tion for  Cuckoo  somewhere  about  her  nature.  For  she 
did  not  want  to  part  with  her,  and  the  tears  she  now  let 
fall  were  prompted  not  only  by  a  prospect  of  money 
coming  in  to  her,  but  also  of  pleasure  in  the  thought 
that  Cuckoo  had  not  entirely  gone  to  the  bad.  She  wept 
like  the  mother  who  sees  her  child  return  from  its  evil 
way. 

Cuckoo  thrust  her  away  without  a  word,  violently. 
Mrs.  Brigg  did  not  resent  the  action,  but  fell  against  the 
passage  wall  sobbing  and  murmuring,  "My  precious, 
my  chickabiddy !  "  while  Cuckoo  banged  the  hall  door 
and  went  out  into  the  night.  Then  the  landlady,  moved 
by  a  sacred  impulse  of  pardon,  bolted  down  to  her 
kitchen  and  began  to  rummage  enthusiastically  in  her 
larder.  She  knew  Cuckoo  had  been  near  to  starving, 
and  had  supported  the  knowledge  with  great  equanimity 
while  this  prodigal  daughter  chose  to  wander  in  wicked 
ways  of  idleness.  But  now  she  killed  the  fatted  calf 
with  trembling  hands,  and  made  haste  to  set  out  a 
reverend  supper  in  Cuckoo's  parlour  to  welcome  her  on 
her  return.  The  cold  bacon,  the  pot  of  porter,  the 
bread,  the  butter,  all  were  Mrs.  Brigg's  symbols  of  par- 


49^  FLAMES 

don  and  of  peace!    And  as  she  laid  them  on  the  table 
she  sang: 

"  In  'er  'air  {whimper)  she  wore  a  white  cam-eelyer, 
Dark  blue  {whimper)  was  the  colour  of  'er  heye."     {Whimper.) 

It  was  like  a  religious  service  with  one  devout  wor- 
shipper. 

Meanwhile  Cuckoo  walked  slowly  along.  It  was  a 
dark  night,  very  still  and  very  damp.  The  frost  had 
gone.  The  stars  were  spending  their  brightness  on 
clouds  that  were  a  carpet  to  them,  a  roof  to  poor  human 
beings  who  could  not  see  them.  In  the  air  was  the  un- 
natural, and  so  almost  unpleasant,  warmth  that,  coming 
suddenly  out  of  due  season,  strikes  at  the  health  of 
many  people,  and  exhausts  them  as  it  would  never  ex- 
haust them  in  time  of  summer.  Cuckoo,  faint  with 
hunger,  fainter  yet  with  sorrow,  felt  intensely  fatigued. 
She  did  not  consider  where  she  was  going,  but  just 
walked  on  slowly  and  heavily;  but  the  habit  of  her  life, 
profiting  by  her  unconsciousness,  led  her  towards  that 
long  street  in  which  she  had  passed  hours  which,  if 
added  together,  would  have  made  a  large  part  of  her 
life.  Piccadilly  drew  her  to  it  as  the  whirlpool  draws 
the  thing  which  inadvertently  touches  even  the  farthest 
outpost  of  its  influence.  Presently  she  was  at  the  Circus 
The  little  boys  upon  the  kerb,  crying  newspapers, 
greeted  her  with  excited  comments  and  with  laughter. 
They  had  missed  her  for  so  long  that  they  had  imagined 
her  ill,  perhaps  dead.  Seeing  her  turn  up  again,  they 
were  full  of  greedy  ardour  for  her  news.  They  put  to 
her  searching  and  opprobrious  questions.  She  did  not 
hear  them.  Soon  she  was  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd. 
Yet  she  scarcely  realized  that  she  was  not  alone.  No 
mechanical  smile  came  to  her  face.  It  seemed  as  if  she 
bad  forgotten  the  old  wiles  of  the  streets,  put  off  for- 
ever the  frigid  mask  of  vice,  that  freezes  young  blood, 
yet  makes  old  blood  sometimes  run  strangely  faster. 
What  was  the  street  to  Cuckoo  now,  or  Cuckoo  to  the 
street?  Once  it  had  at  least  been  much,  almost  every- 
thing, to  her.     And  she  had  been  perhaps  as  much  to  it 


STARVATION   AND    EXCESS  497 

as  one  of  the  paving-stones  on  which  the  feet  of  its 
travellers  trod.  Now  things  were  changed.  The 
human  wolf  was  in  the  snow  still,  but  it  no  longer  feared 
starvation.  Rather  did  it  live  in  starvation  with  a  fer- 
vour that  was  untouched  by  anything  animal. 

Cuckoo  walked  on. 

The  crowd  flowed  up  and  down,  in  two  opposed  and 
gliding  streams.  The  warm  heaviness  of  this  premature 
air  of  spring  had  brought  many  people  out,  and  had  even 
induced  some  of  the  women  to  assume  costumes  of  mid- 
summer. There  were  great  white  hats  floating  on  the 
stream,  like  swans.  Bright  and  light  coloured  dresses 
touched  the  black  gown  of  Cuckoo  as  with  fingers  of 
contempt.  She  did  not  see  them.  Many  women  who 
knew  her  by  sight  murmured  to  each  other  their  sur- 
prise at  her  reappearance.  One,  a  huge  negress  in  orange 
cotton,  ejaculated  a  loud  and  guttural:   "  My  sakes!  " 

Unheeding,  Cuckoo  walked  on. 

A  few  of  the  men  looked  at  her.  More  especially  did 
those  observe  her  who  love  vice  that  is  quiet,  sedate, 
demure,  and  unobtrusive.  To  these  her  pale,  unpainted 
cheeks,  her  unconscious  demeanour,  her  downcast  eyes, 
and  severely  plain  black  dress  and  hat  appealed  with 
emphasis.  One  or  two  of  them  turned  to  follow  her. 
She  never  heard  their  footsteps.  One  spoke  to  her.  She 
did  not  reply.  He  persisted.  When  at  last  she  was 
obliged  to  heed  him  she  only  shook  her  head.  He  fell 
away,  abashed  by  the  dull  glance  of  her  eyes,  and  won- 
dering discontentedly  why  she  was  there  and  what  she 
was  doing. 

Forgetting  him  instantly,  she  walked  on. 

Some  one  she  had  known  in  old  days  met  her.  It  was 
the  young  man  in  the  millinery  establishment  who  had 
loved  her  for  a  week,  and  given  her  the  green  evening 
dress  trimmed  with  the  imitation  lace.  Since  those  days 
he  had  become  strictly  respectable,  had  married  an 
assistant  in  the  shop,  rented  a  tiny  villa  at  Clapham, 
added  two  childish  lives  to  the  teeming  word,  and  devel- 
oped on  Sundays  into  a  sidesman  at  a  suburban  church. 
Now  he  was  on  his  way  to  Charing  Cross  from  a  solemn 
supper  given  by  his  employers  at  a  restaurant  to  some  of 


498  FLAMES 

their  staff.  He  recognized  Cuckoo  and  the  spirit  moved 
him  to  speak  to  her.     He  touched  her  arm. 

'*  Miss-er-Miss  Bright,"  he  said. 

Cuckoo  stopped. 

'*  Miss  Bright,  you  remember  me?     Alf  Heywood!  " 

He  was  a  little  man,  with  a  whitish  face  and  wispy 
light  brown  hair.  Now  his  pale  brown  eyes  glanced  up 
at  Cuckoo  rather  nervously  under  rapidly  winking  lids. 
She  stared  at  him. 

"Alf  Heywood?  "  she  repeated,  without  meaning. 

"Yes,  yes;  Alf  Heywood,  as  was  in  Brenton's  mil- 
linery establishment,  top  of  Regent  Street.  Him  as 
give  you  that  green  dress.     Don't  you  recall?  " 

Cuckoo  shook  her  head. 

"Green,  with  white  lace  on  it,"  he  continued,  with 
nervous  emphasis. 

Suddenly  Cuckoo  said: 

"White;  no,  it  was  yellow." 

Mr.  Heywood  was  delighted  at  this  evidence  of  recol- 
lection. 

"  So  it  was,  so  it  was,"  he  said.  "  But  what  I  wanted 
to  say  was,  that  I  'm  sorry  to  see  you  here  still." 

"Eh?" 

"  Sorry  to  see  you  here.  I  'm  married,  you  know, 
turned  over  a  new  leaf,  with  two  children  of  my  own, 
and  come  to  see  the  error  of  my  ways.    I  hoped  as  you — " 

Cuckoo  walked  on. 

Her  dream  of  despair  was  not  to  be  broken  by  Mr. 
Heywood  and  his  new-found  respectability.  Fate 
shattered  it  to  fragments  in  very  different  fashion.  A 
sudden  thrill  ran  through  the  crowd,  coming  from  a  dis- 
tance. People  began  to  pause,  to  turn  their  heads,  to 
murmur  to  one  another,  then  to  press  forward  in  one 
direction,  craning  their  necks  as  if  to  catch  sight  of 
something.  The  street  was  almost  blocked,  and  Cuckoo 
was  entangled  in  this  seething  excitement,  of  which  at 
first  she  could  not  divine  the  cause.  Presently  she 
heard  shouts.  The  crowd  swayed.  Then  a  man's  fierce 
yell  cut  the  general  murmur  with  the  sharpness  of  a 
knife.  Suddenly  Cuckoo's  dream  fled.  She  pushed  her 
way  forward  in  the  direction  of  the  cry;  she   struggled; 


STARVATION   AND    EXCESS  499 

she  crept  under  arms  and  glided  through  narrow  spaces 
with  extraordinary  dexterity  and  swiftness. 

"He  *s  mad,"  she  heard  a  voice  say. 

"  No;  only  drunk." 

"  He  '11  kill  the  other  fellow  if  he  gets  at  him." 

"The  coppers  will  be  on  him  in  a  minute." 

Cuckoo  was  panting  with  her  effort,  but  she  passed 
the  voices  and  came  upon  the  core  of  the  crowd,  the 
man  who  had  yelled — Julian.  She  saw  in  a  moment  that 
he  was  mad  with  drink.  His  hat  was  off;  his  coat  was 
torn;  his  evening  clothes  were  covered  with  mud. 
Apparently  he  had  fallen  while  getting  out  of  a  cab. 
Two  men — strangers  of  the  street — were  holding  him 
forcibly  back  while  he  struggled  furiously  to  attack 
another  man,  who  faced  him  calmly  on  the  pavement 
with  a  smile  of  keen  contempt.  This  man  was  Valen- 
tine. Julian  was  screaming  incoherent  curses  at  him  and 
wild  threats  of  murder.     The  crowd  listened  and  jeered. 

Cuckoo  caught  Julian  by  the  arm.  He  turned  on  her 
to  strike  her.  Then  his  arm  fell  by  his  side.  It  seemed  as 
if  he  recognized  her  even  through  the  veil  of  his  excess. 
The  drunken  man  looked  on  the  starving  woman,  and  the 
curses  died  upon  his  lips.  He  began  to  shiver  and  to 
tremble  from  head  to  foot.  Valentine  made  a  step 
towards  him,  but  some  in  the  crowd  interposed. 

"  Let  him  alone,"  they  said.  "  You  '11  only  make  him 
worse.     Leave  him  to  her." 

The  cab  from  which  Julian  had  apparently  just 
alighted  was  drawn  up  by  the  kerbstone.  Cuckoo,  who 
had  not  uttered  a  word  as  yet,  drew  Julian  towards  it. 
He  staggered  after  her  in  silence,  stumbled  into  the  cab 
and  collapsed  in  a  heap  in  the  corner,  half  on  the  floor, 
half  on  the  seat.  She  got  in  after  him,  watched  by  the 
crowd,  who  seemed  awed  by  the  abrupt  silence  of  this 
yelling  madman  at  the  touch  of  this  spectral  girl  in  black. 
Cuckoo  gave  her  address  to  the  cabman.  Just  as  he  was 
whipping  up  his  horse  to  drive  away,  she  leaned  forward 
out  of  the  cab  as  if  to  the  crowd — really  to  one  man  in  it. 

"He's  my  man!"  she  said,  drawing  her  thick  eye- 
brows together,  and  with  a  nod  of  her  head.  "  He  's 
my  man.     I  '11  see  to  him." 

The  cab  drove  off  into  the  darkness. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

AN  AWAKENING 

That  drive  in  the  night  was  taken  in  silence.  Julian, 
a  crumpled  heap  of  degraded  humanity,  slept.  Cuckoo 
watched  over  him,  half  supporting  him  with  one  thin 
arm.  Exultation  shone  in  her  eyes  and  beat  in  her 
heart.  The  glory  of  being  alone  with  this  drunken 
creature,  his  protector,  his  guide,  lay  round  the  girl  like 
a  glory  of  heaven.  As  she  looked  at  his  white  face, 
and  pressed  her  handkerchief  against  the  blood  that 
trickled  from  his  forehead,  wild  tears  of  triumph,  passion- 
ate tears  of  joy  and  determination,  swam  to  her  eyes. 
She  felt  at  last  the  pride  and  the  self-respect  of  one  who 
possesses  a  will,  and  who  has  exercised  it.  That  was  a 
justification  of  life  to  her  mind.  Something  had  given 
even  to  her  the  power  to  snatch  this  man  to  her- 
self from  the  jaws  of  dark  London,  to  carry  him  off,  a 
succoured  prey,  from  the  world  laughing  at  his  degrada- 
tion. She  bent  over  him  in  the  rattling  cab  and  touched 
his  face  with  her  lips.  Was  that  a  kiss?  She,  who  had 
known  so  many  kisses,  wondered.  It  was  the  going 
forth  of  her  soul  to  purify  with  flame  the  thing  it  loved. 

The  cab  stopped;  Cuckoo  shook  Julian.  He  stirred 
uneasily,  opened  his  eyes  and  shut  them  again,  relaps- 
ing into  something  that  seemed  rather  a  sort  of  fit  than 
a  slumber.  She  called  to  the  cabman  to  come  and  help 
her.  Between  them  they  carried  Julian  into  the  house 
and  laid  him  out  upon  the  horsehair  sofa. 

"  He  '11  come  to  all  right,  lady,"  said  the  cabby,  with 
a  pleasant  grin  of  knowledge.  "There's  a  many  it 
takes  like  that.     It  ain't  nothing." 

He  paused  for  his  payment,  and  then  Cuckoo  re- 
membered that  she  had  no  money.  The  thought  did  not 
worry  her;  it  seemed  too  far  off. 

500 


AN   AWAKENING  501 

"I  ain't  got  no  money,"  she  said. 

Cabby's  jaw  dropped. 

"Wait  a  second,"  she  said.  "Go  out,  I'll  get 
some." 

The  man  withdrew  doubtfully,  then  Cuckoo  robbed 
Julian.  She,  who  had  never  yet  taken  money  from  him, 
stole  the  price  of  his  fare  to  her  protection.  Then  she 
let  the  cabman  out,  locked  the  street  door,  and  returned. 
She  sat  down  by  Julian,  who  still  appeared  to  sleep. 
And  now  suddenly  she  felt  that  she  was  starving.  She 
'ooked  round  the  room;  there  was  nothing  upon  the 
table.  Mrs.  Brigg,  an  hour  after  her  "Te  Deum,"  had 
been  seized  in  the  claws  of  reaction,  and  had  repented 
of  her  generosity.  Suspicions  and  doubts  obscured  the 
previous  rapture  of  her  mind.  She  bethought  herself 
that  Cuckoo  might  chance  to  return  alone,  still  penni- 
less; she  remembered  the  rent  still  owing.  Her  impulse 
to  kill  fatted  calves  suddenly  struck  her  as  the  act  of  a 
mad  woman.  As  locusts  clear  a  smiling  country  of  all 
that  nourishes,  she  swept  the  table  of  Cuckoo  clear,  im- 
pounding to  her  larder  with  trembling,  eager  hands  the 
food  that  might  never  have  been  paid  for.  Thereupon 
she  went  to  bed,  nodding  her  old  head,  and  muttering 
to  herself  with  pursed  lips. 

So  the  eyes  of  Cuckoo  looked  in  vain  for  something 
to  stay  the  bodily  misery  that  stole  upon  her  as  she 
watched  by  Julian.  Starvation  stripped  away  all  the 
mists  from  her  soul  and  left  it  naked  with  the  burdened 
soul  it  loved.  Despite  her  increasing  pain  of  body, 
Cuckoo  was  conscious  gradually  of  a  light  and  airy  deli- 
cacy of  sensation  that  was  touched  with  something  magi- 
cal. This  awful  hunger  made  her  feel  strangely  pure,  as 
if  her  deeds,  which  for  years  had  clung  round  her  like  a 
brood  of  filthy  vampires,  were  falling  away  from  her  one 
by  one.  They  dropped  down  into  the  night;  she  was 
mounting  into  freedom.  And,  despite  faint  agonies 
which  at  moments  threatened  to  overwhelm  her,  she  had 
never  felt  so  happy.  Instinct  led  her  to  get  away  from 
the  consciousness  of  her  body  by  leaning  utterly  upon 
her  mind.  She  sat  down  by  Julian,  bent  over  him,  ab- 
sorbed herself  in  him.     One  of  his  hands  she  took  gently 


502  FLAMES 

in  her  own.  The  little  act  baptized  him  hers  in  her  mind, 
and  she  was  aware  of  a  great  rush  of  happiness  never 
known  before.  For  she  had  him  there  in  her  nest,  she 
alone.  And  she  loved  him.  Even  in  his  drunken  sleep, 
even  in  his  massacred  condition  of  ugliness  and  hateful- 
ness,  he  was  so  beautiful  to  her  that  she  could  have  wept 
from  thankfulness.  The  world  had  taken  from  her 
everything,  the  very  little  that  she  had  ever  possessed, 
the  purity  that  every  creature  has  once,  the  innocence 
that  she  had  never  understood,  left  her  this  tipsy,  de- 
graded, abandoned,  tragic  atom  of  evil.  And  a  great 
glory  was  hers.  She  could  have  fallen  upon  her  knees 
in  blessing  and  thankfulness,  forgetful  of  all  her  tribe  of 
sorrows,  conscious  only  that  she  was  a  woman  crowned 
and  throned.  By  degrees  she  forgot  that  she  was  starv- 
ving,  forgot  everything  in  an  ecstasy  of  pure  passion  and 
pride,  an  ecstasy  that  brought  food,  rest,  calm,  to  her. 

In  the  dawn  Julian  stirred  and  murmured  incoherent 
words.  Cuckoo  bent  down  to  hear  them.  But  he  slept 
again.  And  as  the  dawn  grew,  the  light  and  airy  feeling 
within  her  grew  with  it,  till  she  seemed  to  be  floating  in 
the  air  and  among  soft,  billowing  clouds.  At  first  there 
was  light  through  them,  light  of  the  sun,  strong  and 
beautiful.  But  then  it  faded.  And  darkness  came,  and 
strange  sounds  like  far-off  voices,  and  a  murmur  as  of 
waters  deepening  in  volume  and  rushing  upon  her.  They 
reached  her.  She  put  out  her  hands  and  thought  she 
cried  out. 

The  waters  swept  her  away. 
«  4c  ♦  *  * 

"Cuckoo!     Cuckoo!     What  is  it?     Cuckoo!" 

**  She  's  a-comin' — she  's  a-comin'  to." 

"Give  me  some  more  water,  then." 

Cuckoo  felt  it  very  cold  upon  her  face,  and  fancied  at 
first  that  it  was  those  rushing  waters  of  her  dream.  But 
the  darkness  parted,  showing  her  two  faces  close  together, 
one  old  and  withered  and  yellow,  one  young,  but  white 
and  lined.  At  first  she  looked  at  them  without  recogni- 
tion. Again  she  felt  the  cold  drops  of  water  dashing 
against  her  cheeks  and  lips,  and  then  she  knew  Mrs. 
Brigg  and  Julian,  and  she  saw  her  little  room,  and  that 


AN   AWAKENING  503 

it  was  morning  and  light.     They  helped  her  to  sit  up. 
She  glanced  wearily  towards  the  table. 

**  What  is  it,  Cuckoo?  "  Julian  said. 

"Food;  I  'm  starving,"  she  whispered,  faintly. 

Horror  was  written  on  his  face. 

"Starving!     What  the  devil  does  she  mean?" 

He  turned  on  Mrs.  Brigg,  who  suddenly  shrunk  away 
muttering: 

"  I  '11  get  something;  breakfast — I  '11  get  it." 

Julian  looked  dazed.  He  was  only  recovering  grad- 
ually from  his  drunken  stupor. 

"Starving — starving,"  he  repeated,  vacantly  staring 
at  Cuckoo,  who  said  nothing  more,  only  lay  back,  trying 
to  understand  things,  and  to  emerge  from  the  mists  and 
noises  in  which  she  still  seemed  to  be  floating.  Pres- 
ently Mrs.  Brigg  returned  and  shufiled  about  the  table 
with  a  furtive,  contorted  face,  laying  breakfast.  The 
teapot  smoked. 

"Come  along,  my  dearie,"  began  the  old  creature. 

But  Julian  thrust  her  out  of  the  room.  He  brought 
Cuckoo  tea  and  food,  fed  her,  put  the  cup  to  her  lips. 
At  first  she  had  scarcely  the  strength  to  swallow,  but 
presently  she  began  to  revive,  and  then  ate  and  drank  so 
ravenously  that  Julian,  even  in  his  vague  condition,  was 
appalled. 

"  Good  God,  it's  true!"  he  said.  "Cuckoo  starv- 
ing!" 

He  sat  by  her  turning  this  piercing  matter  over  in 
his  mind.      Its  strangeness  helped  to  sober  him. 

"You  eat  too,"  she  said. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  she  insisted  feverishly. 

To  pacify  her  he  made  a  sort  of  attempt  at  breakfast, 
and  felt  the  better  for  it.  Together  they  progressed 
slowly  towards  the  normal.  At  last  the  meal  was  over. 
Cuckoo  lay  back,  feeling  wonderfully  better  and  calm 
and  happy.  But  Julian's  eyes  were  searching  hers 
insistently. 

"What  have  you  been  doing?"  he  said.  "You've 
got  to  tell  me.     Starving!     What 's  the  meaning  of  it?  " 

His  voice  sounded  almost  angry  and  threatening. 


504  FLAMES 

**  I  ain't  got  any  money,"  she  said. 

•*Why?" 

She  did  n't  answer. 

*'  Why  —  I  say?  "  he  repeated. 

*'  Because  I  've  given  up  the  street,"  she  said  simply. 

'*  Given  up  the  street  —  Cuckoo!  " 

He  laid  his  hand  down  heavily  upon  one  of  hers. 

*'  Since  when?  " 

**  Oh  —  a  little  while.     It  do  n't  matter  how  long. " 

He  sat  glancing  about  the  room. 

"  Where  's  Jessie?  "  he  asked  suddenly. 

Cuckoo  burst  out  crying. 

"  I  had  to  —  I  had  to,"  she  sobbed. 

"To  do  what?" 

"  To  part  with  her." 

"What!     You 've  sold  Jessie!  " 

Julian  stood  up.  This  last  fact  struck  right  home 
to  him,  banishing  all  his  vagueness,  setting  his  mind  on 
its  feet  firmly. 

"  Jessie  sold!  "  he  exclaimed  again,  in  a  loud  voice. 
"Cuckoo,  why  have  you  done  this?  Tell  me  —  tell  me 
at  once." 

She  strove  to  control  her  sobs. 

"  I  did  n't  know  what  to  do  to  get  you  away  from 
him,"  she  said  presently,  flushing  scarlet.  "I  didn't 
never  see  you;  I  didn't  know  where  you  was.  I  knew 
as  you  did  n't  like  me  going  on  the  street.  Once  you 
asked  me  not  to.     Remember?" 

Julian  nodded,  with  a  piercing  gaze  on  her. 

"So  —  so  thinks  I  —  I  '11  keep  away ;  p'rhaps  it  '11  get 
him  back." 

"Me?" 

He  sat  down  with  a  white  face.  All  about  him  there 
was  flame.  He  seemed  to  understand  what  he  had 
never  understood  before,  the  wonder  of  the  lady  of  the 
feathers,  the  mystery  that  had  drawn  him  so  strangely 
to  her.      He  caught  her  in  his  arms. 

"Oh,  Cuckoo,  Cuckoo,"  he  said,  brokenly.  "You 
love  me." 

He  laid  his  lips  on  hers,  and  pressed  her  mouth  in  a 
passion  of  emotion  that  was  almost  an  assault.     And 


AN   AWAKENING  505 

still  the  fire  was  about  him.  She  clung  to  him  with  her 
thin  arms. 

"  That 's  it,"  she  whispered,  in  reply  to  his  words. 

Julian  held  her  in  silence,  felt  her  heart  beating,  the 
piteous  tenuity  of  her  little  body,  the  weak  grasp  of  her 
arms  round  him.  These  things  broke  upon  him  one  by 
one  with  a  crescendo  of  meaning  that  came  like  a  great 
revelation,  came  to  him  shod  with  flame,  winged  with 
flame,  moving  in  flame,  warm  like  flame. 

"You  starved  for  me,  sold  Jessie  for  me,"  he 
whispered.     "  How  I  love  you!     How  I  love  you!  " 

And  he  crushed  her  close  in  an  embrace  that  was 
almost  brutal. 

The  door  bell  rang.     Julian  let  Cuckoo  go. 

"  He  has  come  for  me,"  he  said. 

She  knew  it  too,  and  looked  at  him  with  a  piteous, 
greedy  questioning. 

"  I  hate  him  now,"  he  said  in  answer. 

The  door  of  the  room  opened.  They  both  turned 
towards  it.     Valentine  entered. 

"I  thought  I  should  find  you  here,"  he  said,  stop- 
ping near  the  door.      "  Are  you  better,  Julian?  " 

"Better?  " 

"  Last  night  you  were  not  yourself." 

"I  have  not  been  myself  for  a  long  time,"  Julian 
replied. 

"  I  had  not  noticed  any  change." 

Julian  made  no  reply.  A  dogged  expression  had 
come  into  his  face.  He  was  still  sitting  close  to  Cuckoo. 
Now  he  took  her  hand  in  his.  As  he  did  so,  Valentine 
moved  a  little  nearer,  as  if  urged  by  a  sudden  impulse. 
He  bent  down  to  gaze  into  Cuckoo's  face,  and  uttered  a 
short  exclamation. 

"The  battle!  "  he  said. 

An  expression  almost  of  awe  had  come  into  his  eyes, 
and  for  a  moment  he  hesitated,  even  half  turned  as  if  to 
slink  away.  But  then,  with  a  strong  effort,  he  recovered 
himself  and  again  fixed  his  eyes  on  Julian. 

"  Come,  Julian!  "  he  said. 

"  I  will  not  come." 

"  I  have  a  cab  here  waiting."     Valentine  spoke  with 


5o6  FLAMES 

an   iron   calm.     "We   had    arranged    to    go   to   Mag- 
dalen's." 

Julian  uttered  an  oath. 

"  That  devil!  "  he  exclaimed.  **  I  won't  go  to  her. 
I  am  half  dead.     I  am  killing  myself." 

He  pulled  himself  up  short,  then  cried  out  savagely, 
and  half  despairingly: 

'*  No,  by  God,  you  are  killing  me!  " 

He  began  to  tremble,  and  looked  towards  Cuckoo  as 
a  man  looks  who  seeks  for  refuge. 

"  You  are  treating  me  very  strangely,  Julian,"  Valen- 
tine said  frigidly.  "Last  night  you  were  drunk.  You 
seemed  to  take  me  for  some  enemy,  and  struck  me. 
Many  men  would  resent  your  conduct.  I  am  too  much 
your  friend." 
,'*You — my     friend!"     Julian     exclaimed     bitterly. 

"You!" 

Abruptly  he  sprang  up,  tearing  his  hand  out  of 
Cuckoo's.  He  went  over  to  Valentine  and  stared  with 
a  passion  of  perplexity  and  of  loathing  into  his  eyes. 

"What,  in  God's  name,  are  you?  "  he  said,  in  an  un- 
certain voice.  "Are  you  man  or  devil?  You  are  not 
Valentine — not  the  man  I  loved.  I  '11  swear  it.  You 
are  some  damned  stranger,  and  I  have  lived  with  you  " 
— he  shuddered  irrepressibly — "and  never  knew  it  till 
now." 

"You  say  I  am  a  stranger?  " 

"  Yes,  with  the  face  of  my  friend." 

"  How  can  that  be?  " 

Again  a  misery  of  confusion  and  of  fear  swept  ovei 
Julian, 

"Whence  did  I  come,  then?  "  Valentine  asked. 

He  began  to  have  the  air  of  a  man  bent  on  some  reve- 
lation. An  immense  power  infused  itself  through  him. 
His  blue  eyes  were  utterly  fearless.  The  moment  of 
open  battle  had  come  at  last.  Well,  he  would  not  at- 
tempt to  avoid  it,  to  gain  further  uneasy  peace.  He 
would  strike  a  final  blow,  secure  of  his  own  victory. 

And  Cuckoo  sat  watching  silently.  She  remembered 
the  night  on  which  Valentine  had  half  revealed  the  mys- 
tery to  her,  who  could  not  understand  it.     Was  he  about 


AN   AWAKENING  507 

to  reveal  it  now  to  Julian?  Her  eyes  flamed  with  eager- 
ness, and  again  Valentine  looked  into  them  and  faltered 
for  a  moment.  Then  he  turned  resolutely  away  from 
her,  as  if  he  gave  his  whole  heart  and  soul  to  the  busi- 
ness before  him,  to  this  Julian  who  at  last  began  to  shrink 
from  him,  to  feel  terror  at  his  approach,  even  to  repudi- 
ate him. 

"  From  what  have  I  come,  then?  "  he  repeated. 

Julian  paused,  as  if  he  sought  an  answer,  looking 
backwards  into  the  past.      Suddenly  he  cried: 

"  From  that  trance!  Yes;  it  was  then.  That  flame 
going  away,  it  was — it  must  have  been — Valentine." 

"You  talk  like  a  madman." 

But  Julian  did  not  heed  the  sneer.  He  was  passion- 
ately engrossed  by  the  flood  of  thoughts  that  had  come 
to  him.  He  was  struggling  to  wake  finally  from  the 
dreary  and  infamous  dream  in  which  he  had  been  walk- 
ing— deceived,  tricked,  tyrant-ridden — for  so  long. 

"But  then  Valentine  is  dead,"  he  cried. 

His  face  went  white.  He  sank  down,  clinging  sud- 
denly to  Cuckoo. 

"  Dead!  "  he  repeated  in  a  whisper. 

The  girl's  touch  was  strangely  warm  on  his  hands, 
like  fire.  He  looked  up  into  her  eyes,  seeking  passion- 
ately for  that  flame  that  now  he  began  vaguely  to  con- 
nect with  the  Valentine  he  had  lost. 

"Oris  he—?" 

Julian  hesitated,  still  gazing  at  the  white  and  weary 
face  of  Cuckoo.     Suddenly  Valentine  said  loudly: 

"  You  are  right.      He  is  dead." 

He  laughed  aloud. 

"  I  killed  him,"  he  said,  "when  I  took  his  place. 
Julian,  you  shall  know  now,  what  the  lady  of  the  feathers 
knows  already,  what  a  human  will  can  do,  when  it  is 
utterly  content  with  itself,  when  it  is  trained,  developed, 
perfected.  I  came  through  Marr  to  Valentine.  I  was 
Marr. " 

"  Marr!  "  Julian  said  slowly.      "  You!  " 

"  And  Marr,  too,  was  ray  prey.  Like  Valentine  he 
was  not  content  with  himself.  His  weakness  of  discon- 
tent was  my  opportunity.     I  expelled  his  will,   for  mine 


5o8  FLAMES 

was  stronger  than  his.  I  lived  in  his  body  until  the  time 
came  for  me  to  be  with  you.  Have  you  ever  read  of 
vampires?" 

Julian  muttered  a  hoarse  assent.  He  seemed  bound 
by  a  strange  spell,  inert,  paralysed  almost. 

"There  are  vampires  in  the  modern  world  who  feed, 
not  upon  bodies,  but  upon  souls,  wills.  And  each  soul 
they  feed  upon  gives  to  them  greater  strength,  a  longer 
reign  upon  the  earth.  Who  knows?  One  of  them  in 
time  may  compass  eternity." 

He  seemed  to  tower  up  in  the  little  room,  to  blaze 
with  triumph. 

"  When  you  see  a  man  go  down,  sink  into  the  mire, 
and  you  say,  '  He  is  weak — he  has  come  under  a  bad  in- 
fluence ' — it  is  a  vampire  who  feeds  upon  his  soul,  who 
sucks  the  blood  of  his  will.  Sometimes  the  vampire 
comes  in  his  own  form,  sometimes  he  wears  a  mask — the 
mask  of  a  friend's  form  and  face.  The  influences  that 
wreck  men  are  the  vampires  of  the  soul  at  work,  Julian, 
at  work." 

His  face  was  terrible.  Julian  shrank  from  it.  He 
turned  to  Cuckoo, 

"They  feed  on  women  too,"  he  said.  "On  the 
souls  of  women.  Men  say  that  magic  is  a  dream  and  a 
chimera.  Women  say  that  miracles  are  past,  or  that 
there  never  were  such  things.  But  the  power  of  sin  is 
magical.  The  death  of  beauty  and  of  innocence  in  a 
soul  is  a  miracle.  My  power  over  you,  Julian,  is  magic. 
The  bondage  of  your  soul  to  mine  is  a  miracle.  Come 
with  me." 

"  I  will  not  come." 

But  Julian's  face,  his  whole  attitude,  betokened  the 
most  piteous  and  degraded  irresolution.  This  man,  this 
creature,  governed  him  despite  himself.  He  felt  once 
more  for  the  hand  of  Cuckoo,  and  finding  it,  spoke 
again  more  firmly: 

"I  '11  not  come,"  he  said.  "I  '11  stay  with  her,  I 
love  her." 

Valentine  casta  malign  glance  upon  Cuckoo,  but  again 
fear  seemed  to  draw  near  to  him.     He  made  no  answer, 

"Only  once  I  '11  come,"  Julian  said.      "To-night.    I 


AN   AWAKENING  509 

lost  Valentine  in  the  dark.  In  the  dark  I  '11  seek  for 
him,  I  '11  find  him  again.  Cuckoo  shall  come  too,  and 
the  doctor.  That  flame — it  went  into  the  air.  I  '11  find 
it — I  '11  find  it  again." 

"Come,  then — seek  it — seek  Valentine.  But  I,  too, 
was  with  you  in  the  dark.  And  in  the  dark  I  will  destroy 
you.     Till  to-night  then,  Julian!  " 

He  turned  and  went  out. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE   LAST  SITTING 

That  evening  Julian  drove  Cuckoo  down  Victoria 
Street.  On  the  way  they  scarcely  spoke.  The  doctor, 
summoned  by  a  messenger,  was  there  before  them.  He, 
although  ignorant  of  what  had  passed  been  Julian  and 
Valentine,  was  deeply  expectant.  Cuckoo  was  ex- 
hausted by  the  sleepless  night  of  her  vigil  over  Julian, 
and  by  the  severe  joy,  almost  like  pain,  that  had  burst 
upon  her  with  his  avowal  and  with  his  savage  embrace. 

When  she  entered  the  tentroom  followed  by  Julian, 
she  looked  like  a  shadow  gliding  wearily  through  twi- 
light. The  doctor  was  there  with  Valentine.  Val- 
entine's face  was  gay.  His  manner  was  ardent,  al- 
most tempestuous.  The  clear  calmness  so  generally 
characteristic  of  him  had  vanished,  swept  away  by  the 
flood  of  his  triumph  perhaps.  Julian  seemed  nervous, 
and  his  appearance  was  so  haggard  as  to  be  engrossing 
to  any  one  who  was  observant.  There  was  a  hunted, 
fearful  look  in  his  eyes.  His  hands  were  never  for  a 
moment  still.  He  kept  close  to  Cuckoo.  He  even  held 
her  hands  as  he  sat  by  her,  and  she  felt  that  his  were 
burning  hot.  He  scarcely  noticed  the  doctor,  who  ob- 
served him  closely.  Valentine  watched  his  feverish 
excitement  with  laughing  eyes.  Of  those  four  people  he 
alone  seemed  entirely  untouched  by  any  deep  emotion, 
entirely  master  of  himself.  For  even  Doctor  Levillier 
was  curiously  moved  that  night,  and  was  unable  to  sup- 
press every  trace  of  abnormal  emotion. 

They  sat  down.  There  were  no  flowers  in  the  room. 
Valentine  explained  that  he  had  remembered  Cuckoo's 
fainting  fit  and  feared  its  renewal. 

"I  am  afraid  you  are  still  scarcely  yourself,"  he 
aded,  with  a  solicitude  that  was  too  elaborate  to  be 

510 


THE   LAST   SITTING  511 

agreeable.  "  You  are  looking  pale  and  tired.  You  are 
sure  to  sleep  again." 

"I'll  not  sleep  to-night,"  she  answered,  showing 
none  of  her  usual  fear  of  him. 

The  assertion  of  her  will,  her  momentary  rescue  of 
Julian,  Julian's  avowed  love  for  her,  his  clinging  to  her 
as  to  a  refuge — all  these  things,  so  Cuckoo  thought, 
built  up  in  her  a  great  fearlessness.  In  her  bodily 
weakness  she  felt  strong.  Her  faded,  weakly  frame  held 
now  a  large  spirit  of  which  she  was  finely  conscious. 
And  she  attributed  this  leaping  spirit,  so  brave,  so  in- 
tense to  these  things,  these  facts  of  which  she  could 
make  a  list.  She  did  not  know  that  behind  them  all 
there  was  a  motive  power  inspiring  her,  through  them 
perhaps,  but  of  itself.  How  often  is  the  power  behind 
the  throne  unsuspected,  unheeded.  Cuckoo  did  not 
recognize  it  in  this  crisis,  although  there  -had  been 
moments  in  the  past  when  the  murmur  of  its  voice  had 
stolen  upon  her  and  stirred  her  to  wonder  and  to  pertur- 
Dation.  And  Valentine,  to  whom  the  combat  came,  saw 
not  his  real  foe.  And  Julian  looked  only  into  Cuckoo's 
faded  eyes  for  refuge,  for  comfort.  And  Doctor  Levil- 
lier — ?  At  present  he  could  only  wait  patiently  in  the 
hope,  doubtful,  fragmentary  of  revelation. 

Conversation  that  night  was  uneasy  and  disjointed. 
Cuckoo's  defiance  of  Valentine  was  fully  apparent. 
Julian's  fear,  obviously  grown  up  to  hatred,  of  his  former 
friend  shone  clearly.  There  was  a  nakedness  about  the 
manners  of  both  tired  woman  and  shattered  man  that  was 
disquieting  and  unusual.  Valentine  did  not  seem  to 
notice  it  or  to  be  moved  about  it.  If  anything,  it  might 
be  supposed  to  add  to  his  pleasure  an  unnatural  revelry 
in  being  hated.  Doctor  Levillier,  glancing  from  him  to 
Julian,  found  him  self-involved  in  remembrances  of  Rip 
and  Valentine.  The  terror  and  the  hate  of  the  dog 
seemed  to  be  reproduced  vividly  in  the  terror  and  the 
hate  of  the  man.  Valentine  watched  both  with  smiling 
eyes  and  drew  draughts  of  power  from  that  fountain  of 
horror. 

At  last  conversation  failed  entirely.  Julian  was  half 
stretched  on   the  divan,  gazing  at   Cuckoo  as  one  who 


513  FLAMES 

aspires  to  salvation.  It  was  apparent  that  he  was  fully 
awake  to  the  terror  of  his  own  situation;  that  he  pierced 
the  depths  of  the  abyss  into  which  he  had  fallen,  in  which 
he  lay  crippled,  prisoned,  ruined.  Yet  a  hope  had 
dawned  on  him  with  the  dawning  of  the  full  knowledge 
of  his  fall,  of  his  fantastic  self-deception.  The  great 
love  in  this  woman's  eyes  shone  down  into  the  abyss, 
shone  from  that  face  pinched  by  starvation.  There 
was  Heaven  in  it.  There  was  the  flame.  Yes,  he  saw  it 
now,  not  literally  as  in  the  past  days,  when  its  mystery 
had  plunged  him  in  awe,  when  its  presence  had  touched 
him  with  a  great  fear,  but  imaginatively,  as  men  see 
flames  of  help,  and  of  faith,  and  of  purity,  shining  in  the 
eyes  of  the  good  women  they  worship,  with  the  rever- 
ence of  earth  for  the  distant  wonder  of  the  sky.  He 
saw  it  now  without  fear,  but  with  a  passion  of  desire,  a 
sharp  consciousness  of  his  degradation,  that  swept  over 
him  like  a  storm.  And  even  yet,  in  this  new  knowledge, 
this  rapture  of  awakening,  he  was  still  a  bond  slave,  or 
feared  he  was,  to  this  stranger  with  the  face  of  a  friend, 
this  enemy  with  the  presence  of  his  former  guardian 
angel.  Only  Cuckoo  could  save  him,  he  said  to  himself, 
if  indeed  the  day  of  salvation  were  not  long  ago  past  — 
only  Cuckoo.  For  despite  her  many  sins,  the  flame  shone 
in  her  eyes.  And  where  the  flame  shone  there  alone  was 
even  the  shadow  of  help,  a  shadow  within  the  shadow  of 
those  eyes. 

In  the  silence  that  had  come  upon  his  guests,  Valen- 
tine turned  to  them,  and  said: 

**We  are  supposed  to  be  here  for  a   sitting.     Well, 
shall  we  have  it?  " 

"Yes  —  yes,"  Julian  said,  "a  last  sitting. " 

"Why  — last?" 

Julian   sat   up   on   the   divan,    and   his  hands   were 
clenched  on  the  cushions. 

"Because  if  nothing  happens  to-night  I  '11  give  it  up. 
I  '11  never  sit  again.     And  if  Cuckoo  sleeps —  " 

He  paused. 

"She  will   sleep,"    Valentine    said.      "I    have  the 
power  to  make  her." 

"  No,"  said  Cuckoo. 


THE    LAST   SITTING  513 

"  Do  n't  you  think  so,  doctor?  " 

*'  It  seemed  so  the  other  night,"  the  doctor  answered. 

"And  with  each  sitting  my  power  will  increase.  Do 
you  hear,  Julian?  " 

"You're  very  fond  of  talking  about  your  power," 
Julian  said,  roughly. 

*'  No.  But  I  maybe  very  fond  of  exercising  it.  Why 
help  me,  then,  by  sitting?  " 

He  spoke  in  a  bantering  tone.  Julian  began  to  look 
doubtful.  Could  it  be  that  all  was  changed,  that  there 
was  only  danger  in  this  act,  that  to  grope  thus  in  the 
darkness  for  lost  hope,  lost  safety,  a  lost  Valentine,  with 
love,  trust,  beauty,  still  clinging  about  him,  was  to  stum- 
ble further  into  a  deepening  night?  It  might  be  so. 
And  if  Cuckoo  slept —  ! 

Valentine  smiled  at  this  wavering  approach  of  inde- 
cision.    But  Doctor  Levillier  said,  decisively: 

"I  wish  to  sit.  It  interests  me.  Send  me  to  sleep, 
too,  if  you  can,  Cresswell. " 

"I  will,"  Valentine  answered,  lightly.      "Come." 

The  doctor  saw  him  standing  for  a  moment  in  the 
light,  with  a  glory  of  power  and  of  triumph  upon  his 
face,  and  remembered  that  glory,  even  seemed  to  see  it, 
a  clear  vision,  when  darkness  filled  the  room. 

Out  of  the  darkness  came  the  murmur  of  a  voice. 

"The  last  sitting,"  it  said. 

Julian  was  the  speaker.  Nobody  replied.  Silence 
followed.  As  before,  the  doctor  sat  between  Julian  and 
Valentine  and  touched  their  hands.  As  before,  the  dark- 
ness, and  this  mutual  act  in  it,  developed  in  him  the 
faculty  of  hearing,  or  of  thinking  he  heard,  the  voices 
of  the  thoughts  of  his  companions.  So  far  this  night 
echoed  the  last  night  of  the  year.  Would  it  echo  that 
night  farther  still  to  the  ultimate  notes  of  this  music  of 
minds?     The  doctor  wondered.     He  was  soon  to  know. 

Once  again  the  notes  of  Valentine's  Litany  stole  upon 
his  heart.  And  to-night  they  seemed  to  him  louder,  more 
strident  than  before,  as  if  blared  from  a  soul  that  held 
a  veritable  brass  band  of  shrill  egoism  within  it.  The 
doctor  listened.  He  remembered  presently  that  the 
former  Litany  had  been  broken  sometimes,  hesitating, 


514  FLAMES 

that  Valentine  had  been  assailed  by  vague  fears  that 
stole  upon  him  like  ghosts  from  the  lady  of  the  feathers. 
To-night  those  little  ghosts  were  laid.  They  came  not. 
It  seemed  that  Valentine  had  conquered  them.  No 
longer  did  they  crowd  to  hear  the  bold  fury  of  the 
Litany.  No  longer  dared  even  one  to  creep  along  alone 
to  bend  and  to  listen.  The  doctor  knew  then  that  this 
night  was  not  destined  to  be  a  mere  echo  of  its  fore- 
runner. It  was  at  first  as  if  Valentine  had  closed  the 
rift  in  his  lute,  had  bridged  the  gulf  between  his  trial 
and  his  triumph.  A  tremendous  sadness  came  upon  the 
doctor  with  this  thought,  enveloping  him  in  a  cloud  of 
cold.  His  heart  fainted  within  him,  as  at  some  great 
catastrophe.  He  could  have  wept  like  a  man  who  finds 
the  trust  of  his  life  ill-founded,  the  faith  in  which  he  has 
dwelt  builded  upon  the  quicksand.  He  fancied  that  Val- 
entine instantly  became  aware  of  his  distress,  and  that 
the  knowledge  swelled  the  mighty  tide  of  the  music  of 
the  Litany.  And  this  thought  struck  him  and  roused  the 
man  in  him,  like  the  call  of  circumstance  on  valour, 
crying:  "Will  a  man  say  that  anything  is  irrevocable, 
while  there  is  breath  in  him  to  give  the  battle-cry, 
strength  in  him  to  stir  a  limb?"  Then  the  faintness 
left  him  with  the  demeanour  of  that  which  is  ashamed. 
The  cold  cloud  evaporated.  He  heard  the  Litany  with- 
out fear,  but  with  a  great  desire  to  strike  a  lightning 
silence  through  it,  with  a  fine  hatred  that  destroyed  his 
former  hopelessness.  This  blatant  will  that  sang  ever 
the  song  of  self,  that  had  no  desire  but  to  itself,  no  glory 
but  in  its  own  deeds,  no  aim  but  to  impress  itself  upon 
some  slave,  some  Julian  of  this  world,  stood  before  the  doc- 
tor's imagination  like  a  personality,  a  devil  embodied, — 
more,  like  the  devil  of  whom  men  and  women  speak, 
against  whom  religion  prays,  and  strives  and  rears  great 
churches,  and  consecrates  priests.  Egoism  developed 
to  the  utmost  limits,  is  that  the  Devil?  The  doctor 
asked  himself  the  question,  and  the  great  shadow  that 
dogs  the  steps  of  life  went  by  him  on  its  black  mission 
in  the  likeness  of  Valentine  singing.  And  all  the  modern 
world  stood  still  to  hear  and  whispered:  "Hark!  It  is 
an  angel  singing!    If  we  but  echo  the  song  we  touch  the 


THE    LAST   SITTING  515 

stars.  If  we  but  echo  the  song  we,  who  are  weary  of 
time,  shall  know  eternity.  If  we  but  echo  the  song  we 
shall  lay  grief  to  rest  beneath  many  roses,  and  draw 
from  its  sculptured  sepulchre  the  radiant  form  of  joy. 
We  shall  sing  that  we  shall  be  great."  And  the  modern 
world  lifted  up  its  voice,  and  when  it  sang,  harmony  was 
slain  by  discord. 

The  doctor  shuddered,  seeing  an  inferno  of  many 
circles.  But  the  coward  in  him  did  not  rise  again.  There 
was  the  gleam  of  a  distant  light  upon  him,  unquenchable 
and  serene.  He  doubted  the  eternity  of  the  triumph  of 
this  Valentine,  though  he  knew  not  why  he  doubted,  nor 
upon  what  his  doubts  were  based. 

And  as  this  doubt,  which  was  a  faith,  blossomed  within 
him  he  had  a  fancy  that  the  music  of  the  Litany  wavered, 
faltered — that  through  it  ran  a  thrill  like  a  faint  shadow 
of  some  dull  despair. 

At  this  moment  Valentine  spoke  in  the  darkness. 

"What  are  you  doing,  Julian?  "  he  asked,  quickly. 

"Nothing,"  Julian  answered. 

"I  heard  you  whisper." 

"I  only  said  something  to  Cuckoo." 

"We  must  not  talk.  Let  us  link  our  fingers  instead 
of  only  touching  each  other." 

They  all  did  so  and  were  silent  once  more. 

*  4c  *  4:  « 

And  now  a  fear  seized  the  doctor.  He  became  aware 
that  a  drowsy  spirit  like  the  little  sandman  who  threw 
the  dust  of  slumber  into  the  eyes  of  the  children  stole 
round  the  circle.  In  his  hands  were  poppy-seeds  and 
opiates,  and  his  touch  was  magical  with  sleep.  Valen- 
tine had  surely  evoked  him  by  a  strange  effort  of  will. 
He  came,  and  his  feet  were  shod  so  that  he  moved  with- 
out noise.  He  filled  the  atmosphere  with  heaviness,  and 
with  a  murmurous  melody,  like  the  melody  of  the  droop- 
ing streams  that  hang  their  silver  ribands  over  the  hills 
of  the  far  Lotus  land.  Passing  the  doctor,  he  stole  to 
the  place  where  Cuckoo  sat  between  Julian  and  Valen- 
tine. And  then  he  paused.  The  docter  divined  his 
mission,  to  weave  a  veil  and  cast  a  cloud  of  sleep  around 
the  lady  of  the  feathers,     The  weariness  of  Cuckoo's 


5i6  FLAMES 

life  lay  like  a  burden  upon  her,  a  heavy  burden  to-night, 
despite  the  wild  wakefulness  of  her  spirit,  the  passion  of 
her  answered  love,  the  strength  of  her  resolution,  the 
purity  that  drew  near  to  her  at  last  with  ivory  wings  along 
the  miry  ways.  She,  who  was  at  last  awake,  and  con- 
scious of  the  glory  of  a  woman's  will  to  rescue  and  to 
shelter,  was  to  sleep  again.  The  sentinel  was  to  be  over- 
come at  her  post,  that  the  enemy  might  penetrate  the 
lines  and  seize  the  citadel.  How  heavy  the  air  was!  To 
the  doctor  it  seemed  alive  with  sleep,  as  the  waters  of 
the  great  sea  are  alive  with  death  for  the  sailor  who  sinks 
down  in  them.  He  saw  the  weaving  of  the  veil  that 
was  dropping  gently  round  Cuckoo.  He  saw  the  cloud 
shrouding  her  in  a  scarcely  palpable  mist.  Or  was  it  his 
dream?  Or  was  it  his  fancy?  For  it  was  dark.  There 
stood  the  tiny,  obstinate  spirit  by  Cuckoo's  side.  His 
hands  touched  her  forehead,  and  touched  her  white  and 
weary  eyelids,  and  the  doctor  knew  that  all  the  fatigues 
of  her  life  trooped  together,  as  at  a  word  of  command, 
and  came  upon  her  to  conquer  her.  They  pressed  round, 
nameless  wearinesses  induced  by  acts  which  had  made 
Cuckoo  that  which  she  was.  And  they  seemed  to  whis- 
per to  her:  "You  cannot  fight.  You  cannot  protect — it 
is  all  over.  You  can  only  sleep — you  can  only  sleep. 
Sleep!  You  are  so  weary.  Sleep,  for  life,  which  has 
taken  everything  else  from  you,  has  left  you  that." 
Cuckoo's  face  was  white  with  the  story  of  her  life,  and 
with  the  wonder  of  her  recent  self-denial,  and  with  the 
memory  of  her  martyrdom  when  the  little  old  man  of  the 
many  dogs  shuffled  to  the  door,  bearing  from  her  the 
friend  of  her  loneliness.  Her  eyes  were  hollow  and 
desolate.  It  seemed  that  she  gave  heed  to  the  voices 
and  listened  to  the  beautiful  legend  of  the  magic  and 
the  holiness  of  sleep.  And  as  she  seemed  to  give  heed, 
the  devil  of  the  egoism  of  Valentine  rose  again  before  the 
doctor,  sharply  outlined  and  distinct,  and  smiled  with 
the  triumph  of  the  egoism — that  modern  vampire — of  all 
the  world,  terrifically  unconquerable.  Would  Cuckoo 
sleep?  The  doctor  debated  this  question  silently  and 
with  an  agony  of  anxiety.  He  felt  as  if  the  fate  of 
worlds  hung  upon  it,  and  the  destinies  of  kings. 


THE   LAST   SITTING  517 

Would  she  sleep? 

The  obstinate   spirit  stood  by  her   always,  and  the 

song  of  Valentine  was  a  procession  of  triumph  in  the 

night. 

***** 

Julian's  thoughts  broke  upon  the  doctor  fiercely,  and 
swept  him  from  his  contemplation  of  Cuckoo.  No 
drowsy  poppy-bed  was  Julian's.  The  shadowy  spirit  of 
sleep  strove  not  to  influence  him.  No  opiates  gave  him 
peace.  No  veil  of  gentle  forgetfulness  descended  upon 
him.  He  was  a  human  being  plunged  in  the  deepest 
abyss  of  fate,  beneath  the  range  of  the  starlight  end  the 
gaze  of  other  worlds.  He  was  trembling,  stretching  out 
his  feeble  hands  in  the  blackness  for  guidance,  sick  with 
apprehension,  betrayed,  deluded.  And  now  he  began 
to  writhe  in  the  grasp  of  a  new  terror,  for  it  seemed  to 
the  doctor  that  he,  too,  was  conscious  of  the  obstinate 
spirit  that  stood  beside  Cuckoo,  and  that  he  dreaded 
the  approach  of  his  doom  in  her  slumber.  He,  too, 
murmured  silently,  *' Will  she  sleep?  Will  she  sleep?" 
If  indeed  she  slept  at  the  word  of  Valentine — Julian's 
last  hope  was  gone.  For  he  had  now  concentrated  him- 
self almost  utterly  on  Cuckoo.  No  longer  did  he  draw 
near  to  her  half  in  awe,  half  in  derision,  led  to  her  by 
the  presence  of  the  flame  that  flickered,  something 
strangely  apart  from  her,  in  her  sad  eyes.  No  longer 
did  he  set  her  and  the  flame  apart.  To  him  she  was  the 
flame,  the  only  refuge,  the  only  safety.  For  he  sought 
the  lost  Valentine  indeed,  but  with  a  strange  hopeless- 
ness of  ever  finding  him  again.  She  must  not  sleep. 
She  must  not  sleep.  In  her  slumber  the  flame  would  die 
down,  flicker  lower  and  lower  to  a  spark,  to  grey,  cold 
ashes.  And  Julian  in  his  distraction  thought  of  himself 
as  inevitably  lost  should  the  flame  die,  should  Cuckoo 
sleep,  ruled  by  Valentine.  The  fight  was  between 
Cuckoo,  the  flame,  and  Valentine.  Everything  else  fell 
away  and  left  Julian's  world  bare  of  all  things  save  this 
one  contest.  This  the  doctor  learnt  in  the  darkness. 
But  still  the  spirit  of  sleep  kept  vigil  by  Cuckoo,  and  the 
air  grew  heavy  and  full  of  slumber. 

The  doctor  began  to  feel  that  his  own  powers  were 


5iS  FLAMES 

being  strenuously  attacked.  Inertia  grew  in  his  body. 
He  sat  almost  like  one  paralyzed.  His  limbs,  at  first 
heavy  as  if  loaded  with  intolerable  weights,  gradually 
became  numb,  until  he  was  no  longer  aware  of  them. 
He  seemed  to  be  merely  a  live  mind  poised  there  in  the 
darkness,  striving  against  the  power  that  sought  to 
sweep  from  its  path  all  those  that  fought  against  it  or 
dared,  however  feebly,  to  resist  it.  But  his  mind, 
poised  thus  in  this  strange  circle  of  slumber,  came  by 
imperceptible  degrees  to  have  a  grip  upon  the  past.  Im- 
itating the  mind  that  is  enclosed  within  a  drowning 
body,  it  gazed  upon  the  wildly  flitting  pictures  of  the 
years  that  were  gone.  Regent  Street  by  night  rose  up 
before  it.  The  doctor  saw,  painted  upon  the  back- 
ground of  the  dense  gloom  in  which  they  sat,  the  huge 
and  vacant  thoroughfare  in  the  last  watch  of  the  night. 
Faint  figures  wandered  here  and  there,  or  paused  be- 
neath the  shadow  of  the  tall  blind  houses,  assuming  pos- 
tures of  fatigue  or  of  leering  and  attentive  evil.  But 
one  moved  onward  steadily,  scarcely  glancing  to  the 
right  or  to  the  left.  The  doctor's  mind,  watching,  knew 
that  this  moving  figure  was  himself,  and,  as  if  with 
bodily  eyes,  he  marked  its  course  down  the  long  vista  of 
the  dim  street  until  it  passed  into  more  private  ways 
of  the  town.  It  passed  into  more  private  ways,  but  not 
alone.  A  shadow  followed  it,  and  the  face  of  the  shadow 
was  turned  away.  The  doctor  could  not  see  it,  but 
there  rose  in  him  the  horror  and  the  fear  which  had  at- 
tacked him  long  ago,  when  he  turned  to  pursue  the  thing 
that  dogged  him  in  the  darkness.  And  he  saw  the 
shadow  waver,  pause,  then  turn  to  flee.  And  as  it 
turned  he  thought  that  it  had  the  soul,  though  not  the 
face,  of  the  new  Valentine.  Then  suddenly  a  great  an- 
ger against  himself  was  born  in  him.  Why  had  he  been 
so  blind,  so  deceived?  He  might  have  protected  Julian. 
But  he,  too,  had  been  a  foolish  victim  of  outward 
beauty,  the  prey  of  the  glory  of  a  face.  He  had  not 
read  the  book  of  the  heart.  And  other  pictures  suc- 
ceeded this  vision  of  the  streets  and  of  the  shadows 
that  walk  in  them  by  night.  He  saw  Valentine  singing 
while  he  and  Julian  listened.     And  the  eyes  of  Valen- 


THE   LAST   SITTING  519 

tine  were  as  the  eyes  of  a  saint,  but  now  he  knew  that 
behind  them  crouched  a  soul  that  was  filled  with  evil. 
Slowly  the  air  grew  heavy.  Slumber  paced  in  the  tiny 
room.  The  doctor  struggled  against  it.  But  the 
colours  of  the  brain-pictures  faded.  He  saw  them  still, 
but  only  as  one  sees  the  world  in  a  fog;  looming  forms 
that  have  lost  their  true  character,  that  have  assumed  a 
vagueness  of  mystery,  outlines  at  once  heavy  and 
remote,  suggestive  yet  indefinite.  And  still  the  spirit  of 
sleep  keep  vigil  by  Cuckoo. 

There  was  a  slight  hoarse  cry  in  the  night. 

"  What  is  that?  "  Valentine  said,  sharply. 

There  was  no  reply.  The  doctor  could  have  told 
him  that  the  cry  came  from  Julian,  and  that  the  lady  of 
the  feathers,  leaning  low  in  her  chair,  had  passed  from 
consciousness  into  insensibility. 

The  spirit  of  sleep  stole  away.  His  work  was  ac- 
complished. Julian  sank  forward  upon  the  table  with 
a  gesture  of  utter  abnegation.  He  thought  that  Cuckoo 
was  dead.  He  felt  that  she  was  dead,  as  long  ago  he 
had  felt  that  his  loved  friend,  that  Valentine  who  had 
protected  him  and  taught  him  the  right  way  of  life,  was 
dead  in  the  night. 

Doctor  Levillier  seemed  to  see  Rip  crouching  down 
against  the  wall. 

And  now  Valentine's  will  prepared  to  assert  itself 
finally.  It  rose  up  to  triumph  as  it  had  risen  up  to 
triumph  over  Rip.  Was  that  struggle  going  to  be  re- 
peated? Nothing  had  intruded  upon  it  except  the  mar- 
vellous tenacity  of  the  dog,  who  had  died  rather  than 
yield  obedience,  died  fighting.  That  tenacity  surely 
did  not  dwell  in  the  nerveless  Julian,  utterly  despairing, 
utterly  wrecked. 

The  doctor  trembled,  feeling  that  the  close  of  the 
strange  mystery  was  at  hand.  And  as  he  trembled  he 
seemed  to  see  in  the  dense  darkness  a  tiny  flame.  It 
shivered  up  in  the  blackness  where  Cuckoo  slept,  moved 
away  from  her,  like  a  thing  blown  on  a  light  wind,  and 
flickered  above  the  bowed,  despairing  head  of  Julian. 
And,  as  he  watched  it,  wondering,  the  doctor  was  con- 


520  FLAMES 

scious  once  more  that  there  was  a  new  presence  in  the 
room,  something  mysterious,  intent,  vehement,  yet 
touched  with  a  strange  and  pathetic  helplessness,  some- 
thing that  cried  against  itself,  something  that  had  suf- 
fered a  martyrdom  unknown,  unequalled,  in  all  the  pale 
history  of  the  martyrdoms  of  the  world.  The  doctor 
recalled  the  sitting  of  the  former  night  and  his  impres- 
sion then — and  again  he  was  governed  by  the  tragedy 
of  this  unknown  soul.  Its  despair  laid  upon  him  cold 
hands.  Its  impotence  crushed  him.  He  could  have 
wept  and  prayed  for  it.  This  was  for  a  moment.  Then 
a  new  wonder  grew  in  him.  His  eyes  were  on  the  flame 
which  burned  above  the  bowed  head  of  Julian,  and  pres- 
ently, while  he  gazed,  he  seemed  to  see,  beyond  and 
through  it — as  one  who  peers  through  a  lit  window — the 
face  of  Valentine,  the  beautiful,  calm,  lofty  Valentine 
whom  once  he  had  loved.  The  face  was  white  with  a 
soft  glory  of  endurance,  and  the  eyes  smiled  like  the 
eyes  of  a  great  king.  And  the  doctor  knew  comfort. 
For  this  face,  although  marred  by  the  shadow  intense  suf- 
fering ever  leaves  behind  it,  was  instinct  with  the  majesty 
of  triumph.  And  the  eyes  were  bent  on  Julian.  Then 
Julian  moved  in  the  darkness  and  looked  upward,  de- 
spair seeking  hope. 

The  man  who  sat  by  the  doctor,  and  who  was  now 
nameless  to  him,  was  filled  with  a  passionate  fury.  The 
doctor  heard  the  Litany  of  his  glory  cease,  and  the  long 
pulse  of  his  heart  throbbing  with  effort.  His  soul  rose 
up,  as  the  cruel  spectre  of  the  new  Valentine  had  risen 
up  to  seize  upon  Rip,  and  moved  towards  Julian  to 
dominate  him  finally,  to  draw  him  into  its  own  eternal 
evil  and  pride  and  passion  of  degraded  power.  But 
Julian  stretched  his  arms  towards  the  flame  which  drew 
its  brightness  and  its  force  from  Cuckoo  sleeping.  That 
was  a  last  battle  of  souls,  and  the  allegory  of  it  came 
clearly  to  the  doctor's  mind. 

He  divined,  as  in  a  vision,  or  as  in  a  dream  that  is 
more  real  than  reality,  the  story  of  his  friend,  the  true 
Valentine,  whom  he  had  loved.  He  remembered  Val- 
entine's dissatisfaction  with  the  glory  of  his  own  beauti- 
ful nature,  his  mad  desire   to  change  it.     That  dissatis- 


THE   LAST   SITTING  521 

faction,  that  desire,  had  been  the  opportunity  of  the 
enemy.  The  soul  that  sighed  in  sorrow  as  it  contem- 
plated its  own  loveliness  had  been  expelled  by  the  soul 
that  was  completely  satisfied  with  its  own  hatefulness. 
The  weakness  of  the  flame  of  purity  had  built  up  the 
strength  of  the  flame  of  impurity.  And  so  beauty  was 
driven  out  to  wander  in  the  wilderness  of  the  air,  and 
ugliness  dwelled  in  its  body,  its  temple  swept  and  gar- 
nished, like  the  seven  devils  of  the  Scripture.  For  how 
long  a  time  had  the  wandering  flame  or  soul  of  beauty 
been  helpless,  impotent,  tortured  by  the  appalling  decep- 
tion of  the  soul  of  Julian,  whom  it  could  no  longer  pro- 
tect! Unable  to  be  at  rest,  it  had  stayed  to  contemplate 
the  dreary  legend  of  Julian's  gradual  fall.  It  had  seen 
his  confidence  in  his  love  for  the  stranger  whom  he 
thought  his  friend  and  his  protector.  In  the  pale  and 
delicate  dawn,  shrouded  in  the  mystery  of  night  and 
day,  enclosed  between  the  clasping  hands  of  the  angels 
of  darkness  and  of  light,  it  had  hung  in  the  air  above 
the  solitary  Julian,  as  he  walked  homeward  after  his 
vigil  by  the  lifeless  body  of  Valentine.  With  a  passion- 
ate effort  it  had  sought  to  draw  him  to  a  knowledge  of 
the  truth,  that  he  might  wake  from  the  dream  in  which 
lay  his  insecurity,  at  last  his  tragic  danger.  And  faintly, 
even  as  the  first  sunbeam  it  had  dawned  upon  him,  once 
as  he  met  the  lady  of  the  feathers,  again  as  he  bent  his 
gaze  upon  the  theatrical  glories  that  attended  the 
apotheosis  of  Margaret.  And  it  had  flickered  behind  the 
film  of  the  tears  in  a  woman's  eyes,  seeking  to  make 
itself  known  through  the  beauty  of  the  love  that  clung 
inexorably  to  the  heart  of  Cuckoo  in  the  midst  of  the 
degradation  and  the  corruption  of  her  fate.  Cuckoo 
had  given  it  a  home.  She  was  alone.  It  approached 
her.  She  was  an  outcast.  It  stayed  with  her.  She 
was  beaten  by  the  thongs  of  a  world  that  teems  with 
Pharisees.  It  clung  to  her.  She  had,  through  all  her 
days  and  nights,  been  put  only  to  the  black  uses  of  evil. 
It  sought  to  use  her  only  for  good.  And  now  at  last  it 
drew  strength  and  power  from  the  soul  of  the  lady  of 
the  feathers.  And  the  doctor  knew  that  the  secret  of 
Cuckoo's  grand  influence  to  succour  lay  in  her  complete- 


522  FLAMES 

ness.  Degraded,  wretched,  soiled,  ignorant,  pent 
within  the  prison-house  of  lust — yet  she  loved  complete- 
ly. And  because  she  loved  completely,  the  sad,  wander- 
ing, driven  soul  of  Valentine  chose  her  from  all  the 
world  to  help  him  in  the  rescue  of  Julian.  For  she, 
like  the  widow,  had  given  her  all  to  feed  the  poor.  Her 
starvation  had  set  her  on  high,  more  than  the  starvation 
and  the  mortification  of  saints  and  hermits.  For  they 
crucify  the  flesh  for  the  good  of  their  own  souls.  Cuckoo 
thought  ever  and  only  of  another.  She  had  betrayed 
Jessie  and  touched  the  stars.  Now  in  her  slumber, 
physical  allegory  of  her  abnegation  of  self,  she  fought 
in  this  battle  of  the  souls. 

The  flame  above  the  head  of  Julian  grew  brighter. 
The  flame  of  Marr,  striving  with  the  fury  of  despair, 
flickered  lower. 

Doctor  Levillier  held  his  breath  and  prayed.  Again 
he  thought  of  Rip.  Would  Julian  too  die  rather  than 
yield  to  the  final  grip  of  evil?     Would  he  die  fighting? 

A  strange  thin  cry  broke  through  the  silence.  The 
doctor  saw  two  flames  float  up  together  through  the 
darkness.  They  passed  before  the  face  of  Cuckoo  and 
were  lost  in  the  air  above  her.     Two  happy  flames. 

She  stirred  suddenly  and  murmured. 

The  thing  that  sat  by  the  doctor  sprang  up.  Light 
flashed  through  the  room. 

As  it  flashed  the  doctor  leaned  towards  Julian,  who 
lay  forward  with  his  arms  stretched  along  the  table. 

He  was  dead. 

Valentine  —  the  spirit,  at  least,  that  had  usurped  the 
body  of  Valentine  —  stood  looking  down  upon  Julian, 
dead,  in  silence. 

Then  it  turned  upon  the  doctor.  The  doctor  stood 
up  as  one  that  nerves  himself  to  meet  a  great  horror. 

He  watched  the  light  fade  out  of  the  eyes  of  this 
horror,  the  expression  slink  from  the  features,  the 
breath  remove  from  the  lips,  the  pulses  cease  in  the 
veins  and  arteries,  until  an  image,  some  lifeless  and 
staring  idol,  stood  before  him. 

It  swayed.     It  tottered.     It  fell,  crumpling  itself  to- 


THE   LAST  SITTING  523 

gether  like  things  that  return  to  dust.  The  flesh,  for- 
merly kept  alive  by  the  spirit,  now  deserted  finally  by 
that  which  had  dwelt  within  it  and  sought  to  use  it  for 
destruction,  went  down  to  death. 

Then  the  lady  of  the  feathers  awoke  at  last  from  her 
sleep.  The  doctor  bent  over  her  and  took  her  hands  in 
his.  It  seemed  to  him  that  she  had  won  a  great  battle. 
He  felt  awestruck  as  he  looked  into  her  eyes.  He  tried 
to  speak  to  her,  but  no  words  came  to  him  except  these, 
which  he  murmured  at  last  below  his  breath: 

*' Your  victory." 

Cuckoo  looked  up  at  him.  Her  eyes  were  still  lightly 
clouded  with  sleep,  but  they  were  smiling,  as  if  they  had 
been  gazing  upon  the  face  of  beauty. 

For  how  long  had  Cuckoo  slept?  Surely  through  all 
the  length  of  her  life,  through  all  the  tears  that  she  had 
shed,  through  all  the  sad  deeds  that  she  had  committed! 
Now,  at  last,  she  woke. 

Her  slumber  had  been  as  the  deep  slumber  of  death. 

And  from  death  do  we  not  awake  to  a  new  under- 
standing and  to  a  new  world? 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

305  De  Neve  Drive  -  Parking  Lot  17  •  Box  951388 

LOS  ANGELES,  CALIFORNIA  90095-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library  from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


iON-RENEWApi 


MAR  1  8  2002 


DUE  2  VVKS  FROM  DATE 

JCLA  ACCESS 

Interllbrary  -oans 

1 1 630  University  Reaeart  n 

Box  951  575 

1  OS  Anqeles,  CA    90096- 

m  ^^ 


RECEIVED 


SER^iCfcS  BL\^ 


utfwy 

1575 


i„, ....  .|ii  II 111111  |ii|  nil  |i  iilill  II  llllll  llll  III!  I' 


lllllllllHllilin 


3  1158  01061  6455 


A    000  132  220     5 


